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COPYRIGHT, 


1885,  BY  GEORGE  BARRIE. 


3 


DRAMATIS  PERSON^.. 


Charaflers  in  the  Prologue  for  the  Theatre. 
The  Manager. 

The  Dramatic  Poet. 

Merrvman. 

CharaHers  in  the  Prologue  in  Heaven. 
The  Lord. 

Raphael  '] 

Garriel  > The  Heavenly  Host. 

Michael  J 

M EPH  ISTOPH  ELES. 

Charaflers  in  the  Tragedy. 

Faust. 

Mephistopheles. 


Wagner,  a Student. 

Margaret. 

Martha,  Margaret' s neighbor. 

Valentine,  Margaret' s brother. 

Old  Peasant. 

A Student. 

I 

' Elizabeth,  an  acquaintance  of  Margaret' s. 


Erosch 

Rrander 

Siebel 


G u ests  in  Auerbach' s win e- cellar. 


Altmayer  , 


Witches,  old  and  young;  Wizards,  Will-o' -the- Wisp,  Witch  Pcdler,  Protophantasmist, 
Servibilis,  Monkeys,  Spirits,  fourneynien , Country-folk,  Citizens,  Beggar,  Old  Fortune- 
teller, Shepherd,  Soldier,  Students,  etc. 


In  the  Intermezzo. 

Oberon.  Ariel. 

Titania.  Puck,  etc.,  etc. 


4 


^ V,  ^ 


DEDICATION. 


Dim  forms,  ye  hover  near,  a shadowy  train. 
As  erst  upon  my  troubl’d  sight  ye  stole. 
Say,  shall  I strive  to  hold  you  once  again  ? 
Still  for  the  fond  illusion  yearns  my  soul? 

Ye  press  around  ! Come,  then,  resume  your 
reign. 

As  upwards  from  the  vapory  mist  ye  roll  ; 
Within  my  breast  youth’s  throbbing  pulses 
bound, 

Fann’d  by  the  magic  air  that  breathes  your 
march  around. 

Shades  fondly  lov’d  appear,  your  train  at- 
tending. 

And  visions  fair  of  many  a blissful  day  ; 
First-love  and  friendship  their  fond  accents 
blending. 

Like  to  some  ancient,  half  expiring  lay; 
Sorrow  revives,  her  wail  of  anguish  sending 
Back  o’er  life’s  devious  labyrinthine  way. 


The  dear  ones  naming  who,  in  life’s  fair  morn. 
By  Fate  beguiled,  from  my  embrace  were  torn. 

They  hearken  not  unto  my  later  song, 

'I'he  souls  to  whom  my  earlier  lays  I sang  ; 
Dispers’d  for  ever  is  the  friendly  throng. 

Mute  are  the  voices  that  responsive  rang. 

My  song  resoundeth  stranger  crowds  among, 
E’en  their  api)lause  is  to  my  heart  a pang; 
And  those  who  heard  me  once  with  joyful  heart. 
If  yet  they  live,  now  wander  far  ai>art. 

A strange  unwonted  yearning  doth  my  soul, 
To  yon  calm  solemn  spirit-land,  upraise; 

In  faltering  cadence  now  my  numbers  roll. 

As  when,  on  harp  FEolian,  Zephyr  plays; 

My  pulses  thrill,  tears  flow  without  control, 

A tender  mood  my  steadfast  heart  o’ersways ; 
What  I possess  as  from  afar  1 see ; 

'bhose  I have  lost  become  realities  to  me. 


5 


PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  THEATRE. 


AIanager.  Dramatic  Poet.  Merrv.man. 

Mana(;er.  Ye  twain,  whom  I so  ott  have 
found 

I'rue  friends  in  trouble  and  distress, 

Say,  in  our  sclieine  on  German  ground. 

What  prospedt  have  we  of  success? 

Fain  would  I jdease  the  public,  win  their 
thanks ; 

Because  they  live  and  let  live,  as  is  meet, 
d'he  posts  are  now  eredled  and  the  planks, 
And  all  look  forward  to  a festal  treat. 

Their  j)laces  taken,  they,  with  eyebrows  rais’d. 
Sit  ])atiently,  and  fain  would  be  amaz’d. 

I know  the  art  to  hit  the  public  taste. 

Yet  so  per])lcx’d  I ne’er  have  been  before  ; 
’Tis  true,  they’re  not  accustom’d  to  the  best. 
But  then  they  read  immensely,  that’s  the  bore. 


How  make  our  entertainment  striking,  new. 
And  yet  significant  and  pleasing  too? 

For  to  be  jdain,  I love  to  see  the  throng. 

As  to  our  booth  the  living  tide  progresses; 

As  wave  on  wave  successive  rolls  along, 

And  through  heaven’s  narrow  portal  forceful 
presses  ; 

Still  in  broad  daylight,  ere  the  clock  strikes 
four. 

With  blows  their  way  towards  the  box  they 
take ; 

And,  as  for  bread  in  famine,  at  the  baker’s  door. 
For  tickets  are  content  their  necks  to  break. 
Such  various  minds  the  bard  alone  can  sway. 
My  friend,  oh  work  this  miracle  to-day  ! 

Poet.  Oh  speak  not  of  the  motley  multi- 
tude. 

At  whose  aspedl  the  spirit  wings  its  flight ; 


0 


Shut  out  the  noisy  crowd,  whose  vortex  rude 
Still  draws  us  downward  with  resistless  might. 
Lead  to  some  nook,  where  silence  loves  to 
brood. 

Where  only  for  the  bard  blooms  pure  delight. 
Where  love  and  friendship,  gracious  heavenly 
pair. 

Our  hearts  true  bliss  create,  and  tend  with 
fostering  care. 

What  there  up-welleth  deep  within  the  breast. 
What  there  the  timid  lip  shap’d  forth  in  sound, 
A failure  now,  now  haply  well  express’d 
In  the  wild  tumult  of  the  hour  is  drown’d  ; 
Oft  doth  the  perfedl  form  then  first  invest 
The  poet’s  thought,  when  years  have  sped 
their  round  ; 

What  dazzles  satisfies  the  present  hour. 

The  genuine  lives,  of  coming  years  the  dower. 
Merrvman.  This  cant  about  posterity  I 
hate ; 

About  posterity  were  I to  prate. 

Who  then  the  living  would  amuse?  For  they 
Will  have  diversion,  ay,  and  ’tis  their  due. 

A sprightly  fellow’s  presence  at  your  play, 
Methinks,  should  always  go  for  something  too ; 
Whose  genial  wit  the  audience  still  inspires. 

Is  not  embittered  by  its  changeful  mood ; 

A wider  circle  he  desires. 

To  move  with  greater  power,  the  multitude. 

To  work,  then  ! Prove  a master  in  your  art ! 
Let  phantasy  with  all  her  choral  train. 

Sense,  reason,  feeling,  passion,  bear  their  part. 
But  mark!  let  folly  also  mingle  in  the  strain  ! 
Manager.  And,  chief,  let  incidents  enough 
arise ! 

A show  they  want;  they  come  to  feast  their 
eyes. 

When  stirring  scenes  before  them  are  dis- 
play’d. 

At  which  the  gaping  crowd  may  wondering 
gaze. 

Your  reputation  is  already  made, 

'I’he  man  you  are  all  love  to  praise. 

The  masses  you  alone  through  masses  can 
subdue. 

Each  then  seledls  in  time  what  suits  his  bent. 
Bring  much,  you  somewhat  bring  to  not  a 
few. 

And  from  the  house  goes  every  one  content. 
You  give  a piece,  in  pieces  give  it,  friend  ! 
Such  a ragout,  success  must  needs  attend  ; 

’Tis  easy  to  serve  up,  as  easy  to  invent. 

A finish’d  whole  what  boots  it  to  present  ! 
’Twill  be  in  pieces  by  the  public  rent. 

Poet.  How  mean  such  handicraft  as  this 
you  cannot  feel  ! 


I How  it  revolts  the  genuine  artist’s  mind  ! 
j The  sorry  trash  in  which  these  coxcombs  deal. 
Is  here  approved  on  principle,  I find. 

Manager.  Such  a reproof  disturbs  me  not 
a whit  I 

Who  on  efficient  work  is  bent. 

Must  choose  the  fittest  instrument. 

Consider  ! ’tis  soft  wood  you  have  to  split ; 
Think  too  for  whom  you  write,  I pray ! 

One  comes  to  while  an  hour  away ; 

One  from  the  festive  board,  a sated  guest ; 
Others,  more  dreaded  than  the  rest. 

From  journal -reading  hurry  to  the  play. 

As  to  a masquerade,  with  absent  minds,  they 
press. 

Sheer  curiosity  their  footsteps  winging  ; 
i Ladies  display  their  persons  and  their  dress, 
Adtors  unpaid  their  service  bringing. 

What  dreams  beguile  you  on  your  poet’s 
' height  ? 

What  puts  a full  house  in  a merry  mood  ? 
More  closely  view  your  patrons  of  the  night  I 
> The  half  are  cold,  the  other  half  are  rude. 
One,  the  play  over,  craves  a game  of  cards ; 
Another  a wild  night  in  wanton  joy  would 
spend. 

i Poor  fool,  the  muses’  fair  regards 
: Why  court  for  such  a paltry  end  ? 

I tell  you,  give  them  more,  still  more,  ’tis  all 
I ask. 

Thus  you  will  ne’er  stray  widely  from  the  goal ; 
Your  audience  seek  to  mystify,  cajole  ; — 

To  satisfy  them — that’s  a harder  task. 

What  ails  thee?  art  enraptur’d  or  distress’d  ? 
Poet.  Depart  ! elsewhere  another  servant 
choose  I 

What ! shall  the  bard  his  godlike  power  abuse? 
Man’s  loftiest  right,  kind  nature’s  high  bequest. 
For  your  mean  purpose  basely  sport  away? 
Whence  comes  his  mastery  o’er  the  human 
breast. 

Whence  o’er  the  elements  his  sway. 

But  from  the  harmony  that,  gushing  from  his 
soul. 

Draws  back  into  his  heart  the  wondrous 
whole  ? 

When  round  her  spindle,  with  unceasing 
drone. 

Nature  still  whirls  th’  unending  thread  of 
life ; 

When  Being’s  jarring  crowds,  together  thrown. 
Mingle  in  harsh  inextricable  strife; 

Who  deals  their  course  unvari’d  till  it  falls. 

In  rhythmic  flow  to  music’s  measur’d  tone? 
Each  solitary  note  whose  genius  calls. 

To  swell  the  mighty  choir  in  unison  ? 


2 1 


7 


Wlio  in  the  raging  storm  sees  passion  lour, 

Or  flush  of  earnest  thought  in  evening’s  glow, 
Who,  in  the  springtide,  every  fairest  flower 
Along  the  lov’d  one’s  path  would  strow? 
From  green  and  common  leaves  whose  hand 
doth  twine. 

The  wreath  of  glory,  won  in  every  field  ? 
Makes  sure  Olympos,  blends  the  powers  di- 
vine ? — 

Man’s  mighty  spirit,  in  the  bard  reveal’d  ! 
Merryman.  Come  then,  employ  your  lofty 
inspiration. 

And  carry  on  the  poet’s  avocation. 

Just  as  we  carry  on  a love  affair. 

Two  meet  by  chance,  are  pleas’d  they  linger 
there. 

Insensibly  are  link’d,  they  scarce  know  how; 
Fortune  seems  now  propitious,  adverse  now. 
Then  come  alternate  rapture  and  despair ; 

And  ’tis  a true  romance  ere  one’s  aware. 

Just  such  a drama  let  us  now  compose. 

Plunge  boldly  into  life — its  depths  disclose  ! 
Each  lives  it,  not  to  many  is  it  known, 

’Twill  interest  wheresoever  seiz’d  and  shown  ; 
Bright  pidtures,  but  obscure  their  meaning: 

A ray  of  truth  through  error  gleaming, 

Thus  you  the  best  elixir  brew. 

To  charm  mankind,  and  edify  them  too. 

Then  youth’s  fair  blossoms  crowd  to  view 
your  play. 

And  wait  as  on  an  oracle  ; while  they. 

The  tender  souls,  who  love  the  melting  mood. 
Suck  from  your  work  their  melancholy  food  ; 
Now  this  one,  and  now  that,  you  deej)ly  stir. 
Each  sees  the  working  of  his  heart  laid  bare ; 
Their  tears,  their  laughter,  you  command  with 
ease. 

The  lofty  still  they  honor,  the  illusive  love. 
Your  finish’d  gentlemen  you  ne’er  can  please; 
A growing  mind  alone  will  grateful  prove. 
Poet.  Then  give  me  back  youth’s  golden 
prime. 

When  my  own  spirit'  too  was  growing. 

When  from  my  heart  th’  unbidden  rhyme 
Gush’d  forth,  a fount  for  ever  flowing; 

Then  shadowy  mist  the  world  conceal’d. 

And  every  bud  sweet  promise  made. 

Of  wonders  yet  to  be  reveal’d. 

As  through  the  vales,  with  blooms  inlaid. 
Culling  a thousand  flowers  I stray’d. 

Naught  had  I,  yet  a rich  profusion  ; 

The  thirst  for  truth,  joy  in  each  fond  illusion. 
Give  me  unquell’d  those  impulses  to  prove  ; — 
Rapture  so  deep,  its  ecstasy  was  pain. 


I The  power  of  hate,  the  energy  of  love. 

Give  me,  oh  give  me  back  my  youth  again ! 
Merryman.  Youth,  my  good  friend,  you 
certainly  require 

When  foes  in  battle  round  you  press. 

When  a fair  maid,  her  heart  on  fire. 

Hangs  on  your  neck  with  fond  caress. 

When  from  afar,  the  Yi6Ior’s  crown. 

Allures  you  in  the  race  to  run  ; 

Or  when  in  reYelry  you  drown 

Your  sense,  the  whirling  dance  being  done. 

But  the  familiar  chords  among 

Boldly  to  sweep,  with  graceful  cunning. 

While  to  its  goal,  the  verse  along 
Its  winding  path  is  sweetly  running ; 

This  task  is  yours,  old  gentlemen,  to-day; 

Nor  are  you  therefore  in  less  reverence  held ; 
Age  does  not  make  us  childish,  as  folk  say, 

It  finds  us  genuine  children  e’en  in  eld. 

Manager.  A truce  to  words,  mere  empty 
sound. 

Let  deeds  at  length  appear,  my  friends  ! 

While  idle  compliments  you  round. 

You  might  achieve  some  useful  ends. 

Why  talk  of  the  poetic  vein  ? 

Who  hesitates  will  never  know  it; 

If  bards  ye  are,  as  ye  maintain. 

Now  let  your  inspiration  show  it. 

To  you  is  known  what  we  require. 

Strong  drink  to  sip  is  our  desire  ; 

Come,  brew  me  such  without  delay  ! 
To-morrow  sees  undone,  what  happens  not  to- 
day; 

Still  forward  press,  nor  ever  tire  ! 

The  possible,  with  steadfast  trust. 

Resolve  should  by  the  forelock  grasp ; 

Then  she  will  ne’er  let  go  her  clasp. 

And  labors  on,  because  she  must. 

On  German  boards,  you’re  well  aware. 

The  taste  of  each  may  have  full  sway ; 
Therefore  in  bringing  out  your  play. 

Nor  scenes  nor  mechanism  spare  ! 

Heaven’s  lamps  employ,  the  greatest  and  the 
least. 

Be  lavish  of  the  stellar  lights. 

Water,  and  fire,  and  rocky  heights. 

Spare  not  at  all,  nor  birds  nor  beast. 

Thus  let  creation’s  ample  sphere 
Forthwith  in  this  our  narrow  booth  appear. 
And  with  considerate  speed,  through  fancy’s 
spell. 

Journey  from  heaven,  thence  through  the 
world,  to  hell ! 


8 


PROLOGUE  IN  HEAVEN. 


'Fhe  Lord.  The  Heavenly  Hosts.  After- 
wards Mephistopheles. 

The  three  Archangets  come  fonvard. 

Raphael.  Stiil  cjuiring  as  in  ancient  time 
With  lirother  spheres  in  rival  song, 

The  sun  with  thunder-marcli  sublime 
Moves  his  predestin’d  course  along. 

Angels  are  strengthen’d  by  his  sight, 

Though  fathom  him  no  angel  may; 
Resplendent  are  the  orbs  of  light. 

As  on  creation’s  primal  day. 

Gabriel.  And  lightly  spins  earth’s  gor- 
geous sphere. 

Swifter  than  thought  its  rapid  flight ; 
Alternates  Eden-brightness  clear. 

With  solemn,  dread-inspiring  night; 


'J'he  foaming  waves,  witli  murmurs  hoarse. 
Against  the  rocks’  deejr  base  are  hurl’d; 

.And  in  the  s])here’s  eternal  course 
Are  rocks  and  ocean  swiftly  whirl’d. 

Michael.  And  rival  temiicsts  rush  amain 
From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 

.And  raging  form  a wondrous  chain 
Of  dee])  mysterious  agency  ; 

Full  in  the  thunder’s  fierce  career. 

Flaming  the  swift  destrudlions  [)lay; 
lint.  Ford,  thy  messengers  revere 
The  mild  jjrocession  of  thy  day. 

The  'riiREE.  Angels  are  strengthened  by 
thy  sight. 

Though  fathom  thee  no  angel  may; 
d'hy  works  still  shine  with  splendor  bright. 

As  on  creation’s  ])rimal  day. 


9 


Mephistopheles.  Since  thou,  O Lord,  ap- 
])roacliest  us  once  more, 

And  how  it  fares  with  us,  to  ask  art  fain. 

Since  thou  hast  kindly  welcom’d  me  of  yore, 

I hou  seest  me  also  now  among  thy  train. 
Excuse  me,  fine  harangues  I cannot  make. 
Though  all  the  circle  look  on  me  with  scorn ; 
My  ])athos  soon  thy  laughter  would  awake, 
Hadst  thou  the  laughing  mood  not  long  for- 
sworn. 

Of  suns  and  worlds  I nothing  have  to  say, 

I see  alone  mankind’s  self-torturing  pains. 

The  little  world-god  still  the  self-same  stamp 
retains, 

.\nd  is  as  wondrous  now  as  on  the  primal  day. 
Better  he  might  have  fared,  poor  wight, 

Hadst  thou  not  given  him  a gleam  of  heavenly 
light; 

Reason  he  names  it,  and  doth  so 
Use  it,  than  brutes  more  brutish  still  to  grow. 
With  deference  to  your  grace,  he  seems  to  me 
Like  any  long-legged  grasshopper  to  be. 

Which  ever  flies,  and  flying  springs, 

.\nd  in  the  grass  its  ancient  ditty  sings. 

Would  he  but  always  in  the  grass  repose 
In  every  heap  of  dung  he  thrusts  his  nose. 

The  Lord.  Hast  thou  naught  else  to  say? 
Is  blame 

In  coming  here,  as  ever,  thy  sole  aim? 

Does  nothing  on  the  earth  to  thee  seem  right? 
Mephis.  No,  Lord  ! I find  things  there 
in  miserable  plight. 

Men’s  wretchedne.ss  in  sooth  I so  deplore. 

Not  even  I would  plague  the  sorry  creatures 
more. 

The  Lord.  Knovv’st  thou  my  servant, 
Faust  ? 

Mephis.  Thedodlor? 

'I'he  Lord.  Right. 

Mephis.  He  serves  thee  in  strange  fashion, 
as  I think. 

Poor  fool ! Not  earthly  is  his  food  or  drink. 
An  inward  impulse  hurries  him  afar. 

Himself  half  conscious  of  his  frenzied  mood; 
From  heaven  claimeth  he  its  brightest  star. 
And  from  the  earth  craves  every  highest  good, 
.And  all  that’s  near,  and  all  that’s  far. 

Fails  to  allay  the  tumult  in  his  blood. 

The  Lord.  Though  now  he  serves  me 
with  imperfedl  sight, 

I will  ere  long  conduft  him  to  the  light. 

The  gard’ner  knoweth,  when  the  green  ap- 
pears. 

That  flowers  and  fruit  will  crown  the  coming 
\’ears. 


Mephis.  What  wilt  thou  wager?  Him 
thou  yet  shalt  lose. 

If  leave  to  me  thou  wilt  but  give. 

Gently  to  lead  him  as  I choose  ! 

The  Lord.  So  long  as  he  on  earth  doth 
live. 

So  long  ’tis  not  forbidden  thee. 

Man  still  must  err,  while  he  doth  strive. 

Mephis.  I thank  you  ; for  not  willingly 
I traffic  with  the  dead,  and  still  aver 
That  youth’s  plump  blooming  cheek  I very 
much  prefer. 

I’m  not  at  home  to  corpses;  ’tis  my  way. 

Like  cats  with  captive  mice  to  toy  and  play. 
The  Lord.  Enough!  ’tis  granted  thee! 
Divert 

This  mortal  sjiirit  from  his  primal  source ; 
Him,  canst  thou  seize,  thy  power  exert 
And  lead  him  on  thy  downward  course. 

Then  stand  abash’d,  when  thou  perforce  must 
own, 

A good  man,  in  the  direful  grasp  of  ill. 

His  consciousness  of  right  retaineth  still. 
Mephis.  Agreed!  — the  wager  will  be 
quickly  won. 

For  my  success  no  fears  I entertain  ; 

And  if  my  end  I finally  should  gain. 

Excuse  my  triumphing  with  all  my  soul. 

1 Dust  he  shall  eat,  ay,  and  with  relish  take. 

As  did  my  cousin,  the  renowned  snake. 

The  Lord.  Here  too  thou’rt  free  to  adl 
without  control ; 

I ne’er  have  cherished  hate  for  such  as  thee. 
Of  all  the  spirits  who  deny. 

The  scoffer  is  least  wearisome  to  me. 

Ever  too  prone  is  man  adlivity  to  shirk. 

In  uncondition’d  rest  he  fain  would  live  ; 
Hence  this  companion  jiurposely  I give. 

Who  stirs,  excites,  and  must,  as  devil,  work. 
But  ye,  the  genuine  sons  of  heaven,  rejoice  ! 
In  the  full  living  beauty  still  rejoice  ! 

May  that  which  works  and  lives,  the  ever- 
growing. 

In  bonds  of  love  enfold  you,  mercy-fraught. 
And  Seeming’s  changeful  forms,  around  you 
flowing. 

Do  ye  arrest,  in  ever-during  thought ! 

\_Hcaven  closes,  the  Airhangels  disperse. 
Mephis.  (Alone.)  The  ancient  one  I like 
sometimes  to  see. 

And  not  to  break  with  him  am  always  civil ; 
’Tis  courteous  in  so  great  a lord  as  he. 

To  speak  so  kindly  even  to  the  devil. 


10 


Night. 

A high  vaulted  narrow  Gothic  chamber. 
Faus  t,  restless,  seated  at  Jus  desk. 

Faust. 


ERP2  have  I,  alas!  Phil- 
osophy, 

Medicine,  Jurisprudence 
too. 

And  to mycost'I'heology, 
With  ardent  labor,  studied 
through. 

And  yet  I stand,  with  all  my 
lore. 

Poor  fool,  no  wiser  than  be- 
fore. 

Magister,  doctor  styled,  indeed, 

Already  these  ten  years  I lead. 

Up,  down,  across,  and  to  and  fro. 

My  pupils  by  the  nose, — and  learn. 

That  we  in  truth  can  nothing  know  ! 

'I'his  in  my  heart  like  fire  doth  burn. 

’Tis  true,  Pve  more  cunning  than  all  your  dull 
tribe, 

Magister  and  doctor,  priest,  parson,  and 
scribe ; 


Scruple  or  doubt  comes  not  to  enthrall  me, 
Neither  ran  devil  nor  hell  now  a])pall  me — 
Hence  also  my  heart  must  all  pleasure  forego! 
I may  not  pretend,  anght  rightly  to  know, 

I may  not  [)retend,  through  teaching,  to  find 
A means  to  imjuove  or  convert  mankind. 
'I’hen  I have  neither  goods  nor  treasure. 

No  worldly  honor,  rank,  or  pleasure ; 

No  dog  in  such  fashion  would  longer  live! 
Therefore  myself  to  magic  1 give. 

In  hope,  through  sjjirit-voice  and  might. 
Secrets  now  veiled  to  bring  to  light. 

That  I no  more,  with  aching  l)iow. 

Need  speak  of  what  I nothing  know; 

That  I the  force  may  recognize 
'Fhat  binds  creation’s  inmost  energies; 

Her  vital  powers,  her  embryo  seeds  survey. 
And  fling  the  trade  in  empty  words  away. 

O full-orb’d  moon,  did  but  thy  rays 
'I’heir  last  upon  mine  anguish  gaze  ! 

Beside  this  desk,  at  dead  of  night. 


13 


Oft  have  I watch’d  to  hail  thy  light: 

Then,  pensive  friend  ! o’er  book  and  scroll, 
With  soothing  power,  thy  radiance  stole  ! 

In  thy  dear  light,  ah,  might  I climb. 

Freely,  some  mountain  heiglit  sublime. 

Round  mountain  caves  with  spirits  ride, 

In  thy  mild  haze  o’er  meadows  glide. 

And,  purg’d  from  knowledge-fumes,  renew 
My  spirit,  in  thy  healing  dew ! 

Woe’s  me  ! still  prison’d  in  the  gloom 
Of  thisabhorr’d  and  musty  room, 

Where  heaven’s  dear  light  itself  doth  pass. 

But  dimly  tlirough  the  painted  glass  ! 
Hemmed  in  by  volumes  thick  with  dust, 

A prey  to  worms  and  mouldering  rust. 

And  to  the  high  vault’s  topmost  bound. 

With  smoky  paper  compass’d  round  ; 

With  boxes  round  thee  pil’d,  and  glass. 

And  many  a useless  instrument. 

With  old  ancestral  lumber  blent — 

This  is  thy  world  ! a world  ! alas ! 

And  dost  thou  ask  why  heaves  thy  heart. 

With  tigliten’d  pressure  in  thy  breast? 

Why  the  dull  ache  will  not  depart. 

By  which  thy  life-pulse  is  oppress’d? 

Instead  of  nature’s  living  sphere. 

Created  for  mankind  of  old, 

Brute  skeletons  surround  thee  here. 

And  dead  men’s  bones  in  smoke  and  mould. 

Up  ! Forth  into  the  distant  land  ! 

Is  not  this  book  of  mystery 
By  Nostradamus’  proper  hand. 

An  all-sufficient  guide?  Thou’ It  see 
The  courses  of  the  stars  unroll’d  ; 

When  nature  doth  her  thoughts  unfold 
I'o  thee,  thy  soul  shall  rise,  and  seek 
Communion  high  with  her  to  hold, 

As  spirit  doth  with  spirit  speak  ! 

Vain  by  dull  poring  to  divine 
The  meaning  of  each  hallow’d  sign. 

Spirits  ! I feel  you  hov’ring  near  ; 

Make  answer,  if  my  voice  ye  hear  ! 

\He  opens  the  book  and  perceives  the  sign  of 
the  Alacrocosnios. 


Unveils  the  working  of  the  wondrous  whole? 
Am  I a God  ? What  light  intense  ! 

In  these  pure  symbols  do  I see 
Nature  exert  her  vital  energy. 

Now  of  the  wise  man’s  words  I learn  the 
sense : 

“Unlock’d  the  spirit-world  doth  lie; 

Thy  sense  is  shut,  thy  heart  is  dead  ! 

Up,  scholar!  lave,  with  courage  high. 

Thine  earthly  breast  in  the  morning-red  !” 

\^He  contejnplates  the  sign. 

How  all  things  live  and  work,  and  ever 
blending. 

Weave  one  vast  whole  from  Being’s  ample 
range  I 

How  powers  celestial,  rising  and  descending. 
Their  golden  buckets  ceaseless  interchange  I 
Their  flight  on  rapture-breathing  pinions 
winging. 

From  heaven  to  earth  their  genial  influence 
bringing. 

Through  the  wide  sphere  their  chimes  melo- 
dious ringing  I 

A wondrous  show  ! but  ah  ! a show  alone  ! 
Where  shall  I grasp  thee,  infinite  nature, 
where  ? 

Ye  breasts,  ye  fountains  of  all  life,  whereon 
Hang  heaven  and  earth,  from  which  the 
wither’d  heart 

For  solace  yearns,  ye  still  impart 
Your  sweet  and  fostering  tides — where  are 
ye — where  ? 

Ye  gush,  and  must  I languish  in  despair? 

\^He  turns  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  im- 
patiently, and  perceives  the  sign  of  the 
Earth-spirit. 

How  all  unlike  the  influence  of  this  sign  I 
Earth-spirit,  thou  to  me  art  nigher. 

E’en  now  my  strength  is  rising  higher, 

E’en  now  I glow  as  with  new  wine ; 

Courage  I feel,  abroad  the  world  to  dare, 

Tlie  woe  of  earth,  the  bliss  of  earth  to  bear. 
To  mingle  with  the  lightning’s  glare. 

And  mid  the  crashing  shipwreck  not  despair. 


All  I at  this  specTacle  through  every  sense. 
What  sudden  ecstasy  of  joy  is  flowing  ! 

I feel  new  rapture,  hallow’d  and  intense. 
Through  every  nerve  and  vein  with  ardor 
glowing. 

Was  it  a god  who  charadler’d  this  scroll. 
Which  doth  the  inward  tumult  still. 

The  troubled  heart  with  rapture  fill, 

And  by  a mystic  impulse,  to  my  soul. 


Clouds  gather  over  me — 

'I'he  moon  conceals  her  light — 

The  lamp  is  quench’d — 

Vapors  are  rising — Quiv’ring  round  my  head 
Flash  the  red  beams — Down  from  the  vaulted 
roof 

A shuddering  horror  floats. 

And  seizes  me  ! 

I feel  it,  spirit,  prayer-compell’d,  ’tis  thou 


14 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUST.  FIRS'F  PAR'l’. 


THE  SI’IKIT  AI'PEAHING  TO  FAUST. 


Art  hovering  near ! 

Unveil  tliyself! 

Ha  ! How  my  heart  is  riven  now  ! 

Each  sense,  with  eager  palpitation, 

Is  strain’d  to  catch  some  new  sensation  ! 

I feel  my- heart  surrender’d  unto  thee  ! 

'I'hou  must ! Thou  must  ! Though  life 
should  be  the  fee ! 

\_He  seizes  the  hook,  and  pronounces  jnys- 
terioHsly  the  sign  of  the  spirit.  A ruddy 
flame  flashes  tip  ; the  spirit  appears  in  the 
flame. 

Spirit.  Who  calls  me  ? 

Faust.  ( Turning  aside.)  Dreadful  shape  ! 

Spirit.  With  might. 

Thou  hast  compell’d  me  to  appear. 

Long  hast  been  sucking  at  my  sphere. 

And  now — 

Faust.  Woe’s  me ! I cannot  bear  thy 
sight. 

Spirit.  To  know  me  thou  didst  breathe 
thy  prayer. 

My  voice  to  hear,  to  gaze  upon  my  brow ; 

Me  doth  thy  strong  entreaty  bow— 

Lo  ! I am  here ! — What  pitiful  despair 
Grasps  thee,  the  demigod!  Where’s  now  the 
soul’s  deep  cry  ? 

Where  is  the  breast  which  in  its  depths  a world 
conceiv’d 

And  bore  and  cherish’d;  which,  with  ecstasy. 
To  rank  itself  with  us,  the  spirits,  heav’d? 
Where  art  thou,  Faust?  whose  voice  I heard 
resound. 

Who  towards  me  press’d  with  energy  pro- 
found? 

Art  thou  he?  Thou — whom  tlms  my  breath 
can  blight. 

Whose  inmost  being  with  affright 
'I'rembles,  a crush’d  and  writhing  worm  ! 

Faust.  Shall  I yield,  thing  of  flame,  to 
thee? 

Faust,  and  thine  equal,  I am  he  ! 

Spirit.  In  the  currents  of  life,  in  action’s 
storm, 

I float  and  I wave 
With  billowy  motion ! 

Birth  and  the  grave, 

A limitless  ocean, 

A constant  weaving, 

With  change  still  rife, 

A restless  heaving, 

A glowing  life — 

Thus  time’s  whirring  loom  unceasing  I ]>ly. 
And  weave  the  life-garment  of  deity. 

Faust.  Thou,  restless  spirit,  dost  from  end 
to  end 


O’ersweep  the  world  ; how  near  I feel  to  thee  I 
Spirit.  Thou’rt  like  the  spirit,  thou  dost 
comprehend. 

Not  me  ! [ iPnishes. 

Faust.  ( Deeply  moved.)  Not  thee? 

Whom  then? 

I,  God’s  own  image! 

And  not  rank  with  thee  ! \_A  knock. 

O death  ! I know  it — ’tis  my  famulus— 

My  fairest  fortune  now  escapes ! 

That  all  these  visionary  shapes 
A soulless  groveller  should  banish  thus! 

[Wagner  in  his  dressing-gown  and  night- 
cap, a lamp  in  his  hand.  Faust  turns 
round  reluPlantly. 

Wagner.  Pardon  ! I heard  you  here  de- 
claim ; 

A Grecian  tragedy  you  doubtless  read? 
Improvement  in  this  art  is  now  my  aim. 

For  now-a-days  it  much  avails.  Indeed 
An  actor,  oft  I’ve  heard  it  said  at  least. 

May  give  instru6tion  even  to  a priest. 

Faust.  Ay,  if  your  priest  should  be  an 
actor  too. 

As  not  improbably  may  come  to  pass. 

Wagner.  When  in  his  study  pent  the 
whole  year  through, 

Man  views  the  world  as  through  an  optic 
glass. 

On  a chance  holiday,  and  scarcely  then. 

How  by  persuasion  can  he  govern  men  ? 

Faust.  If  feeling  prompt  not,  if  it  doth 
not  flow 

Fresh  from  the  spirit’s  depths,  with  strong 
control 

Swaying  to  rapture  every  listener’s  soul. 

Idle  your  toil;  the  chase  you  may  forego! 
Brood  o’er  your  task  ! Together  glue. 

Cook  from  another’s  feast  your  own  ragout. 
Still  prosecute  your  paltry  game. 

And  fan  your  ash-heaps  into  flame! 

Thus  children’s  wonder  you’ll  excite. 

And  apes’,  if  such  your  appetite: 

But  that  which  issues  from  the  heart  alone 
Will  bend  the  hearts  of  others  to  your  own. 

Wagner.  The  speaker  in  delivery  will  find 
Success  alone;  I still  am  far  behind. 

Faust.  A worthy  object  still  pursue! 

Be  not  a hollow  tinkling  fool ! 

Sound  understanding,  judgment  true. 

Find  utterance  without  art  or  rule; 

And  when  with  earnestness  you  speak, 
d'hen  is  it  needful  cunning  words  to  seek? 
Your  fine  harangues,  so  jiolish’d  in  their  kind, 
Wherein  the  shreds  of  human  thought  ye  twist, 
Are  unrefreshing  as  the  emjity  wind. 


2—3 


15 


Wliistling  tlirougli  wither’d  leaves  and  autumn 
mist ! 

Wagner.  U Heavens!  art  is  long  and  life  i 
is  short ! 

Still  as  1 prosecute  with  earnest  zeal 

The  critic’s  toil,  I’m  haunted  by  this  thought, 

And  vague  misgivings  o’er  my  spirit  steal. 

The  very  means  how  hardly  are  they  won 


And  what  a glorious  height  we  have  achiev’d 
at  last. 

Faust.  .\y  truly  I even  to  the  loftiest  star! 
To  us,  my  friend,  the  ages  that  are  ])ass’d 
A book  with  seven  seals,  close-fasten’d,  are; 
.\nd  what  the  s])irit  of  the  times  men  call, 

Is  merel)-  their  own  s]hrit  after  all. 

Wherein,  elistorted  oft,  the  times  are  glass’d. 


By  which  we  to  the  fountains  rise! 

And,  hajilv,  ere  one  half  the  course  is  run. 
Check’d  in  his  progress,  the  jioor  devil  lies. 

Faust.  Parchment,  is  that  the  sacred  fount 
whence  roll 

Waters,  he  thirsteth  not  who  once  hath  (inaffed  ? 
Oh,  if  it  gush  not  from  thine  inmost  sord. 
Thou  hast  not  won  the  life-restoring  draught. 

Wagneiu  Your  jrardon  ! ’tis  delightful  to 
trans])ort 

One’s  self  into  the  spirit  of  the  past. 

To  see  in  times  before  us  how  a wise  man 
thought. 


Then  truly,  ’tis  a sight  to  grieve  the  soul  ! 

.'\t  the  first  glance  we  fly  it  in  dismay; 

A very  Inmber-ioom,  a rnbbish-hole; 

At  best  a sort  of  mo(  k-heroic  play. 

With  saws  ]jragmatical,  and  maxims  sage, 

To  suit  the  puppets  and  their  mimic  stage. 

Wagner,  lint  then  the  world  and  man,  his 
heart  and  brain  ! 

'Pouching  these  things  all  men  would  sonre- 
thing  know. 

Faust.  Av  ! what  ’mong  men  as  knowl- 
edge doth  olttain  ! 

Who  on  the  child  its  true  name  dares  bestow? 


i6 


The  few  who  somewhat  of  these  things  have 
known, 

Who  their  full  hearts  unguardedly  reveal’d, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  feelings  from  the  mob  con- 
ceal’d, 

Have  died  on  crosses,  or  in  flames  been 
thrown. — 

Excuse  me,  friend,  far  now  the  night  is  spent. 
For  this  time  we  must  say  adieu. 

Wagner.  Still  to  watch  on  I had  been  well 
content. 

Thus  to  converse  so  learnedly  with  you. 

But  as  to-morrow  will  be  Easter-day, 

Some  further  questions  grant,  I pray; 

With  diligence  to  study  still  I fondly  cling; 
Already  I know  much,  but  would  know  every- 
thing. \^Exit. 

Faust.  {Alone.')  How  he  alone  is  ne’er 
bereft  of  hope, 

Who  clings  to  tasteless  trash  with  zeal  untir’d, 
Who  doth,  with  greedy  hand,  for  treasure 
grope. 

And  finding  earth-worms,  is  with  joy  inspir’d  ! 

And  dare  a voice  of  merely  human  birth. 

E’en  here,  where  shapes  immortal  throng’d, 
intrude? 

Yet  ah ! thou  poorest  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

For  once,  I e’en  to  thee  feel  gratitude. 

Despair  the  power  of  sense  did  well-nigh  blast. 
And  thou  didst  save  me  ere  I sank  dismay’d; 
So  giant-like  the  vision  seem’d,  so  vast, 

I felt  myself  shrink  dwarf’d  as  I survey’d  ! 

I,  God’s  own  image,  from  this  toil  of  clay 
Already  freed,  with  eager  joy  who  hail’d 
The  mirror  of  eternal  truth  unveil’d. 

Mid  light  effulgent  and  celestial  day — 

I,  more  than  cherub,  whose  unfetter’d  soul 
With  penetrative  glance  aspir’d  to  flow 
Through  nature’s  veins,  and,  still  creating, 
know 

The  life  of  gods, — how  am  I punish’d  now! 
One  thunder-word  hath  hurl’d  me  from  the 
goal  ! 

Spirit  ! I dare  not  lift  me  to  thy  sphere. 

What  though  my  power  compell’d  thee  to  ap- 
pear. 

My  art  was  powerless  to  detain  thee  here. 

In  that  great  moment,  rapture-fraught, 

I felt  myself  so  small,  so  great ; 

Fiercely  didst  thrust  me  from  the  realm  of 
thought 

Back  on  humanity’s  uncertain  fate  ! 

Who’ll  teach  me  now?  What  ought  I to 
forego? 


Ought  I that  impulse  to  obey? 

Alas ! our  every  deed,  as  well  as  every  woe. 
Impedes  the  tenor  of  life’s  onward  way  ! 

E’en  to  the  noblest  by  the  soul  conceiv’d. 
Some  feelings  cling  of  baser  quality; 

And  when  the  goods  of  this  world  are  achiev’d. 
Each  nobler  aim  is  term’d  a cheat,  a lie. 

Our  aspirations,  our  soul’s  genuine  life. 

Grow  torpid  in  the  din  of  earthly  strife. 

Though  }'outhful  phantasy,  while  hope  in- 
spires. 

Stretch  o’er  the  infinite  her  wing  sublime, 

A narrow  compass  limits  her  desires. 

When  wreck’d  our  fortunes  in  the  gulf  of 
time. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  man  care  builds  her  nest. 
O’er  secret  woes  she  broodeth  there. 

Sleepless  she  rocks  herself  and  scareth  joy  and 
rest ; 

Still  is  she  wont  some  new  disguise  to  wear; 
She  may  as  house  and  court,  as  wife  and  child 
appear. 

As  dagger,  poison,  fire  and  flood  ; 

Imagin’d  evils  chill  thy  blood. 

And  what  thou  ne’er  shall  lose,  o’er  that  dost 
shed  the  tear. 

I am  not  like  the  gods  ! Feel  it  I must ; 

I’m  like  the  earth-worm,  writhing  in  the  dust, 

1 Which,  as  on  dust  it  feeds,  its  native  fare, 

I Crush’d  ’neath  the  passer’s  tread,  lies  buried 
there. 

I Is  it  not  dust,  wherewith  this  lofty  wall, 

I With  hundred  shelves,  confines  me  round. 
Rubbish,  in  thousand  shapes,  may  I not  call 
What  in  this  moth-world  doth  my  being 
bound  ? 

Here,  what  doth  fail  me,  shall  I find? 

Read  in  a thousand  tomes  that,  everywhere. 
Self-torture  is  the  lot  of  human-kind. 

With  but  one  mortal  happy,  here  and  there? 
Thou  hollow  skull,  that  grin,  what  should  it 
say. 

But  that  thy  brain,  like  mine,  of  old  per- 
plex’d. 

Still  yearning  for  the  truth,  hath  sought  the 
light  of  day. 

And  in  the  twilight  wander’d,  sorely  vex’d? 
Ye  instruments,  forsooth,  ye  mock  at  me, — 
With  wheel,  and  cog,  and  ring,  and  cylinder; 
To  nature’s  portals  ye  should  be  the  key; 
Cunning  your  wards,  and  yet  the  bolts  ye  fail 
to  stir. 

Inscrutable  in  broadest  light. 


17 


To  be  unveil’d  by  force  she  doth  refuse, 

What  slie  reveals  not  to  thy  mental  sight, 

Thou  wilt  not  wrest  from  her  with  levers  and 
with  screws. 

Old  useless  furnitures,  yet  stand  ye  here, 
Hecause  my  sire  ye  serv’d,  now  dead  and 
gone. 

Old  scroll,  the  smoke  of  years  dost  wear. 

So  long  as  o’er  this  desk  the  sorry  lamp  hath 
shone. 

Better  my  little  means  have  squander’d  quite 
away. 

Than  burden’d  by  that  little  here  to  sweat  and 
groan  ! 

Wouklst  thou  possess  thy  heritage,  essay. 

By  use  to  render  it  thine  own  ! 

What  we  emi)loy  not,  but  impedes  our  way, 
'Bhat  which  the  hour  creates,  that  can  it  use 
alone  ! 

But  wherefore  to  yon  spot  is  riveted  my  gaze? 
Is  yonder  flasket  there  a magnet  to  my  sight  ? 
Whence  this  mild  radiance  that  around  me 
plays. 

As  when,  ’mid  forest  gloom,  reigneth  the 
moon’s  soft  light  ? 

Mail,  precious  phial  ! Thee,  with  reverent 
awe, 

Down  from  thine  old  receptacle  I draw'  ! 
Science  in  thee  I hail  and  human  art. 

Essence  of  deadliest  powers,  refin’d  and  sure, 
Of  soothing  anodynes  abstradlion  pure. 

Now  in  thy  master’s  need  thy  grace  impart ! 

I gaze  on  thee,  my  pain  is  lull’d  to  rest ; 

I grasp  thee,  calm’d  the  tumult  in  my  breast ; 
d'he  flood-tide  of  my  spirit  ebbs  away; 
Onward  I’m  summon’d  o’er  a boundless  main, 
Calm  at  my  feet  expands  the  glassy  plain, 

To  shores  unknow'ii  allures  a brighter  day. 

Do,  w here  a car  of  fire,  on  airy  pinion. 

Comes  floating  towards  me  ! I’m  prepar’d  to 
fly 

By  a new'  track  through  ether’s  w'ide  dominion, 
To  distant  spheres  of  jnire  activity. 

'I'his  life  intense,  this  godlike  ecstasy — 


U’orm  that  thou  art  such  rapture  canst  thou 
earn  ? 

Only  resolve  with  courage  stern  and  high, 

1 Thy  visage  from  the  radiant  sun  to  turn  ; 

Dare  with  determin’d  will  to  burst  the  por- 
tals 

Bast  which  in  terror  others  fain  would  steal  ! 
Now  is  the  time,  through  deeds,  to  show'  that 
mortals 

The  calm  sublimity  of  gods  can  feel  ; 

To  shudder  not  at  yonder  dark  abyss, 

W’here  phantasy  creates  her  own  self-torturing 
brood. 

Right  onw'ard  to  the  yaw'iiing  gulf  to  ])ress, 
Around  whose  narrow  jaws  rolleth  hell’s  fiery 
flood  ; 

Wbth  glad  resolve  to  take  the  fatal  leap, 
Though  danger  threaten  thee,  to  sink  in  end- 
less sleep  ! 

Pure  crystal  goblet,  forth  I draw'  thee  now. 
From  out  thine  antiquated  case,  where  thou 
Forgotten  hast  reposed  for  many  a year  ! 

Oft  at  my  father’s  revels  thou  didst  shine. 

To  glad  the  earnest  guests  was  thine. 

As  each  to  other  pass’d  the  generous  cheer, 
d'he  gorgeous  brede  of  figures,  quaintly 
w'rought. 

Which  he  who  quaff’d  must  first  in  rhyme  ex- 
pound. 

Then  drain  the  goblet  at  one  draught  pro- 
found. 

Hath  nights  of  boyhood  to  fond  memot)' 
brought. 

I to  my  neighbor  shall  not  reach  thee  now. 
Nor  on  thy  rich  device  shall  I m\'  cunning 
show. 

Here  is  a juice,  makes  drunk  w’ithout  delay ; 
Its  dark  brown  flood  thy  crystal  round  doth 
fill  ; 

Let  this  last  draught,  the  produdi  of  my  skill, 
My  owm  free  choice,  be  quaff’d  with  resolute 
w'ill, 

A solemn  festive  greeting,  to  the  coming  day! 

[//c  places  the  goblet  to  his  mouth. 
[ The  }-iuging  of  bells,  and  choral  voices. 


iS 


Chorus  of  Angels. 
Christ  is  arisen  ! 
Mortal,  all  hail  to 
thee, 

Thou  whom  mortal- 


Earth’s  sad  reality. 
Held  as  in  prison. 


Faust.  What  lunn  melodious,  what  clear 
silvery  chime. 

Thus  draws  the  goblet  from  my  lips  away? 

Ye  deeiJ-ton’d  bells,  do  ye  with  voice  sublime. 
Announce  the  solemn  dawn  of  Easter-day? 
Sweet  choir  ! are  ye  the  hymn  of  comfort  sing- 
. I'lg, 

Which  once  around  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 
From  seraph-voices,  in  glad  triumjjh  ringing. 
Of  a new  covenant  assurance  gave? 

Chorus  of  Women.  We,  liis  true-hearted. 
With  spices  and  myrrh. 

Embalm’d  the  departed, 

And  swath’d  Him  with  care; 

Here  we  convey’d  Him, 

Our  Master,  so  dear  ; 

Alas  ! Where  we  laid  Him, 
d'he  Christ  is  not  here. 

Chorus  of  .Angels.  Christ  is  arisen  ! 
berfedt  through  earthly  ruth, 

Radiant  with  love  and  truth. 


He  to  eternal  youth 
Soars  from  earth’s  jtrison. 

Faust.  Wherefore,  ye  tones  celestial,  sweet 
and  strong. 

Come  ye  a dweller  in  the  dust  to  seek? 

Ring  out  your  chimes  believing  crowds  among. 

The  message  well  I hear,  my  faith  alone  is 
weak  ; 

From  faith  her  darling,  miracle,  hath  S])rung. 

Aloft  to  yonder  spheres  I dare  not  soar, 

Whence  sound  the  tidings  of  great  joy  ; 

And  yet,  with  this  sweet  strain  familiar  when 
a boy. 

Rack  it  recalleth  me  to  life  once  more. 

Then  would  celestial  love,  with  holy  kiss, 

Come  o’er  me  in  the  Sabbath’s  stilly  hour, 

While,  fratight  with  solemn  meaning  and 
mysterious  power. 

Chim’d  the  deep-sounding  bell,  and  ju'ayer 
was  bliss; 

A yearning  impulse,  undefin’d  yet  dear. 


19 


Drove  me  to  wander  on  through  wood  and  field  ; 
Whth  heaving  breast  and  many  a burning  tear, 
I felt  with  holy  joy  a world  reveal’d. 

Gay  sports  and  festive  hours  proclaim’d  with 
joyous  pealing, 

This  Easter  hymn  in  days  of  old  ; 

And  fond  remembrance  now  doth  me,  with 
childlike  feeling. 

Rack  from  the  last,  the  solemn  step,  withhold. 
O still  sound  on,  thou  sweet  celestial  strain  ! 
The  tear-drop  flows — Earth,  I am  thine  again  ! 
Chokusof  Disciples.  He  whom  we  mourn’d 
as  dead, 

Living  and  glorious. 

From  the  dark  grave  hath  fled. 

O’er  death  vidtorious; 

Almost  creative  bliss 
Waits  on  his  growing  powers  ; 


Ah  ! Him  on  earth  we  miss  ; 
Sorrow  and  grief  are  ours. 
Yearning  He  left  his  own, 

Mid  sore  annoy ; 

.\h  ! we  must  needs  bemoan, 
Master,  thy  joy ! 

Chorus  ok  Angels.  Christ  is  arisen. 
Redeem’d  from  decay. 

The  bonds  which  imprison 
Your  souls,  rend  away  ! 

Praising  the  Lord  with  zeal. 

By  deeds  that  love  reveal. 

Like  brethren  true  and  leal 
Sharing  the  daily  meal, 
d'o  all  that  sorrow  feel 
Whisp’ring  of  heaven’s  weal. 

Still  is  the  Master  near. 

Still  is  He  here  ! 


20 


With  you  he’ll  walk,  he’ll  dance  with  none 
but  you, 

And  with  your  pleasures  what  have  I to  do? 

The  Second.  To-day  he  will  not  be 
alone,  he  said 

His  friend  would  be  with  him,  the  curly-head. 

Student.  Why  how  those  buxom  girls 
step  on ! 

Come,  brother,  we  will  follow  them  anon. 
Strong  beer,  a damsel  smartly  dress’d. 
Stinging  tobacco, — these  I love  the  best. 

Burgher’s  Daughier.  Look  at  those 
handsome  fellows  there! 

’Tis  really  shameful,  I declare. 

The  very  best  society  they  shun. 

After  those  servant-girls  forsooth,  to  run. 

Second  Student.  ( To  the  first  ) Not  quite 
so  fast ! for  in  our  rear. 

Two  girls,  well-dress’d,  are  drawing  near; 

Not  far  from  us  the  one  doth  dwell. 

And  sooth  to  say,  I like  her  well. 

'I'hey  walk  demurely,  yet  you’ll  see. 

That  they  will  let  us  join  them  presently. 

The  First.  Not  I!  restraints  of  all  kinds 
I detest. 

Quick  ! let  us  catch  the  wild-game  ere  it  flies, 
'I'he  hand  on  Saturday  the  mop  that  i)lies 
Will  on  the  Sunday  fondle  you  the  best. 

Burgher.  No,  this  new  Burgomaster,  I 
like  him  not ; each  hour 
He  grows  more  arrogant,  now  that  he’s  rais’d 
to  power ; 

And  for  the  town,  what  doth  he  do  for  it? 

Are  not  things  worse  from  day  to  day  ? 

To  more  restraints  we  must  sulmiit ; 

And  taxes  more  than  ever  pay. 

Beggar.  (Sings.)  Kind  gentlemen  and 
ladies  fair. 


Before  the  Gate. 

Promenaders  of  all  sorts  pass  out. 

Artisans.  Why  choose  ye  that  diredtion, 
pray  ? 

Others.  To  the  hunting-lodge  we’re  on 
our  way. 

The  First.  We  towards  the  mill  are 
strolling  on. 

A Mechanic.  A walk  to  Wasserhof  were 
best. 

A Second.  The  road  is  not  a jileasant  one. 

'J'he  (J'i  hers.  What  will  you  do  ? 

.A  Third.  Fll  join  the  rest. 

A Fourth.  Let’s  uj)  to  Burghof,  there 
you’ll  find  good  cheer. 

The  prettiest  maidens  and  the  best  of  beer. 
And  brawls  of  a prime  sort. 

A Fifth.  You  scapegrace  ! How  ! 

Your  skin  still  itching  for  a row? 

Thither  I will  not  go,  I loathe  the  place. 

Servant  Girl.  No,  no ! I to  the  town 
my  steps  retrace. 

Another.  Near  yonder  poplars  he  is  sure 
to  be. 

The  First.  And  if  he  is,  what  matters  it 
to  me ! 


21 


So  rosy-cheek’d  and  trimly  dress’d, 
lie  pleas’d  to  listen  to  my  prayer, 
Relieve  and  pity  the  distress’d. 

Let  me  not  vainly  sing  my  lay! 

His  heart’s  most  glad  w ho.se  hand  is  free. 
Now  when  all  men  kee[j  holiday. 
Should  be  a harvest-day  to  me. 
.Another  Burgher.  1 know  naught  better 
on  a holiday, 

Than  chatting  about  war  and  war’s  alarms; 
A\’hen  folk  in  Turkey  are  all  up  in  arms. 
Fighting  their  deadly  battles  far  away. 

We  at  the  window  stand,  our  glasses  drain. 
And  watch  adown  the  stream  the  painted 
vessels  glide, 

Then,  blessing  peace  and  peaceful  times,  again 
Homeward  we  turn  our  steps  at  eventide. 
Third  Burgher.  Ay,  neighbor!  So  let 
matters  stand  for  me  ! 

There  they  may  scatter  one  another’s  brains, 
And  wild  confusion  round  them  see — 

So  here  at  home  in  quiet  all  remains  ! 

Oi  D Woman.  ( To  the  Burghers’  Daugh- 
ters, j Heyday!  How  smart!  'The  fresh 
young  blood  ! 

^\'ho  would  not  fall  in  love  with  you  ? 

Not  <juite  so  proud  ! ’'Bis  well  and  good  ! 

And  what  you  wish,  that  1 could  helj)  you  to. 

Burgher’s  Datighter.  Come,  Agatha!  I 
care  not  to  be  seen 

Walking  in  public  with  these  witches.  True, 
My  future  lover,  last  St.  Andrew’s  E’en, 

In  flesh  and  blood  she  brought  before  my 
view. 

Another.  And  mine  she  show’d  me  also 
in  the  glass, 

.A  soldier’s  figure,  with  companions  bold  : 

I look  around,  I seek  him  as  I jjass. 

In  vain,  his  form  I nowhere  can  behold. 

Soldiers.  Fortress  with  turrets 
Rising  in  air. 

Damsel  disdainful, 

Haughty  and  fair, 
d'hese  be  my  prey  ! 

Bold  is  the  venture. 

Costly  the  |)ay ! 

Hark  how  the  trumpet 
Thither  doth  call  us, 

^\'here  either  pleasure 
Or  death  may  befall  us. 

1 lail  to  the  tumult  ! 

Life’s  in  the  field  ! 

Damsel  and  fortress 
'I'o  us  must  yield. 


Bold  is  the  venture. 

Costly  the  pay ! 

Gayly  the  soldier 
Marches  away. 

Faust  and  Wagner. 

Faust.  Loos’d  fiom  their  fetters  are 
streams  and  rills 
Through  the  gracious  spring-tide’s  all-quicken- 
ing glow; 

Hope’s  budding  joy  in  the  vale  doth  blow; 
Old  Winter  back  to  the  savage  hills 
Withdraweth  his  force,  decrepit  now. 

'I'hence  only  impotent  icy  grains 
Scatters  he  as  he  wings  his  flight. 

Striping  with  sleet  the  verdant  plains; 

But  the  sun  endureth  no  trace  of  white; 
Everywhere  growth  and  movement  are  rife. 

All  things  investing  with  hues  of  life : 

'I'hough  flowers  are  lacking,  varied  of  dye, 
'I'heir  colors  the  motley  throng  supply. 

'Burn  thee  around,  and  from  this  height. 

Back  to  the  town  diredl  thy  sight. 

B’orth  from  the  hollow,  gloomy  gate. 

Stream  forth  the  masses,  in  bright  array. 
Gladly  seek  they  the  sun  to-day; 

Bhe  Resurredtion  they  celebrate; 

B'or  they  themselves  have  risen,  with  joy, 
B'rom  tenement  sordid,  from  cheerless  room, 
B’rom  bonds  of  toil,  from  care  and  annoy. 
From  gable  and  roof’s  o’erhanging  gloom, 
BTom  crowded  alley  and  narrow  street, 

And  from  the  churches’  awe-breathing  night. 
All  now  have  issued  into  the  light. 

But  look  ! how  spreadeth  on  nimble  feet 
'Bhrough  garden  and  field  the  joyous  throng. 
How  o’er  the  river’s  am}>le  sheet. 

Many  a gay  wherry  glides  along  ! 

And  see,  deej)  sinking  in  the  tide. 

Pushes  the  last  boat  now  away. 

E’en  from  yon  far  hill’s  path-worn  side. 

Flash  the  bright  hues  of  garments  gay. 

Hark  ! Sounds  of  village  mirth  arise  ; 

This  is  the  people’s  paradise. 

Both  great  and  small  send  up  a cheer  ; 

Here  am  I man,  I feel  it  here. 

Wagner.  Sir  Dodlor,  in  a walk  with 
you 

There’s  honor  and  instrudlion  too; 

Yet  here  alone  I care  not  to  resort. 

Because  I coarseness  hate  of  every  sort. 

This  fiddling,  shouting,  skittling,  I detest; 

I hate  the  tumult  of  the  vulgar  throng; 

'Bhey  roar  as  by  the  evil  one  possess’d. 

And  call  it  pleasure,  call  it  song. 


22 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUSr.  FIRST  PART. 


UNDER  THE  LINDEN  TREE. 


Peasants,  f Under  the  linden  tree.) 
Dance  and  song. 

The  shepherd  for  the  dance  was  dress’d, 
With  ribbon,  wreath  and  colored  vest, 

A gallant  show  displaying. 

And  round  about  the  linden  tree, 

They  footed  it  right  merrily. 

Juchhe  ! Juchhe  ! 

Juchheisa  ! Heisa  ! He  ! 

So  fiddle-bow  was  braying. 

Our  swain  amidst  the  circle  press’d. 

He  push’d  a maiden  trimly  dress’d. 

And  jogg’d  her  wnth  his  elbow  ; 

The  buxom  damsel  turn’d  her  head, 

“ Now  that’s  a stupid  trick  !”  she  said, 
Juchhe!  Juchhe! 

Juchheisa  ! Heisa  ! He  ! 

Don’t  be  so  rude,  good  fellow! 

Swift  in  the  circle  they  advance. 

They  dance  to  right,  to  left  they  dance. 

The  skirts  abroad  are  swinging. 

And  they  grow  red,  and  they  grow  warm. 
Elbow  on  hip,  they  arm  in  arm, 

Juchhe!  Juchhe! 

Juchheisa  ! Heisa  ! He  ! 

Rest,  talking  now  or  singing. 

Don’t  make  so  free  ! How  many  a maid 
Has  been  betroth’d  and  then  betray’d ; 

And  has  repented  after  ! 

Yet  still  he  flatter’d  her  aside. 

And  from  the  linden,  far  and  wide, 

Juchhe!  Juchhe! 

Juchheisa!  Heisa!  He! 

Sound  fiddle-bow  and  laughter. 

Or.D  Peasant.  Do6lor,  ’tis  really  kind  of 
you. 

To  condescend  to  come  this  way, 

A highly  learned  man  like  you. 

To  join  our  mirthful  throng  to-day. 

Our  fairest  cup  I offer  you. 

Which  we  with  sparkling  drink  have  crown’d. 
And  pledging  you,  I pray  aloud. 

That  every  drop  within  its  round, 

\Vhile  it  your  jmesent  thirst  allays. 

May  swell  the  number  of  your  days. 

P’aust.  I take  the  cup  you  kindly  reach. 
Thanks  and  prosperity  to  each  ! 

[ The  cnnvd  gather  round  in  a circle. 
Old  Peasant.  Ay,  truly  ! ’tis  well  done, 
that  you 

Our  festive  meeting  thus  attend  ; 

You,  who  in  evil  days  of  yore. 

So  often  show’d  yourself  our  friend  ! 


Full  many  a one  stands  living  here. 

Who  from  the  fever’s  deadly  blast. 

Your  father  rescued,  when  his  skill 
'Dv  fatal  sickness  stay’d  at  last. 

A young  man  then,  each  house  you  sought, 
Where  reign’d  the  mortal  iiestilence. 

Corpse  after  corpse  was  carried  forth, 

P)Ut  still  unscath’d  you  issued  thence. 

Sore  then  your  trials  and  severe ; 

The  Helper  yonder  aids  the  helper  here. 

All.  Heaven  bless  the  trusty  friend,  an& 
long 

To  help  the  poor  his  life  prolong  ! 

Faust.  To  Him  above  in  homage  bend. 
Who  prompts  the  helper  and  Who  help  doth 
send. 

\He proceeds  with  Wagner. 
Wagner.  With  what  emotions  must  your 
heart  o’erflow. 

Receiving  thus  the  reverence  of  the  crowd  ! 
Great  man  ! How  happy,  who  like  you  doth 
know 

Such  use  for  gifts  by  heaven  bestow’d  ! 

You  to  the  son  the  father  shows ; 

They  press  around,  inquire,  advance, 

Hush’d  is  the  fiddle,  check’d  the  dance. 

Still  where  you  pass  they  stand  in  rows. 

And  each  aloft  his  bonnet  throws. 

They  fall  upon  their  knees,  almost 
As  when  there  passeth  by  the  Host. 

Faust.  A few  steps  further,  up  to  yonder 
stone  ! 

Here  rest  we  from  our  walk.  In  times  long 
past. 

Absorb’d  in  thought,  here  oft  I sat  alone. 

And  disci[)lin’d  myself  with  prayer  and  fast. 
'I'hen  rich  in  hope,  with  faith  sincere. 

With  sighs,  and  hands  in  anguish  press’d. 

The  end  of  that  sore  plague,  with  many  a tear. 
From  heaven’s  dread  Lord,  I sought  to  wrest. 
These  praises  have  to  me  a scornful  tone. 

(Jh,  could’st  thou  in  my  inner  being  read. 
How  little  either  sire  or  son. 

Of  such  renown  deserve  the  meed  ! 

My  sire,  of  good  repute,  and  sombre  mood. 
O’er  nature’s  powers  and  every  mystic  zone. 
With  honest  zeal,  but  methods  of  his  own, 
Whth  toil  fantastic:  loved  to  brood  ; 

His  time  in  dark  alchemic  cell, 

With  brother  adepts  he  would  spend, 

And  there  antagonists  compel, 

'bhrough  numberle.ss  receipts  to  blend. 

[ .'\  ruddy  lion  there,  a suitor  bold. 

In  tepid  bath  was  with  the  lily  wed. 

Thence  both,  while  open  flames  around  them 
roll’d, 


23 


Were  tortur’d  to  anotlier  bridal  bed. 

Was  then  the  youtliful  queen  descri’d 
Whth  many  a line,  to  c rown  the  task  ; — 

'I'his  was  our  medicine;  the  jiatients  died, 

“ Who  were  restor’d  ?”  none  car’d  to  ask. 
\Vhtli  our  infernal  mixture  thus,  ere  long, 
These  hills  and  peaceful  vales  among, 

We  rag’d  more  fiercely  than  the  pest  ; 

Myself  the  deadly  poison  did  to  thousands 
give  ; 

They  jiined  away,  I yet  must  live. 

To  hear  the  reckless  murderers  blest. 

Wa(;ner.  Why  let  this  thought  your  soul 
o’ercast? 

Can  man  do  more  than  with  nice  skill. 

With  firm  and  conscientious  will, 

Pradlise  the  art  transmitted  from  the  past? 

If  duly  you  revere  your  sire  in  youth. 

His  lore  you  gladly  will  receive  ; 

In  manhood,  if  you  spread  Uie  bounds  of 
truth. 

Then  may  your  son  a higher  goal  achieve. 
Faust.  O blest,  whom  still  the  hope  in- 
.spires. 

To  lift  himself  from  error’s  turbid  flood  ! 

\\’hat  a man  knows  not,  he  to  use  requires. 
And  what  he  knows,  he  cannot  use  for  good. 
But  let  not  moody  thoughts  their  shadow 
throw 

O’er  the  calm  beauty  of  this  hour  serene  ! 

In  the  rich  sunset  see  how  brightly  glow 
Yon  cottage  homes,  girt  round  with  verdant 
green  ! 

Slow  sinks  the  orb,  the  day  is  now  no  more  ; 
Yonder  he  ha.stens  to  diffuse  new  life. 


Oh  for  a pinion  from  the  earth  to  soar, 

And  after,  ever  after  him  to  strive  ! 

Then  should  I see  the  world  below. 

Bath’d  in  the  deathless  evening  beams, 

The  vales  reposing,  every  height  a-glow, 

'I’he  silver  brooklets  meeting  golden  streams, 
d'he  .savage  mountain,  with  its  cavern’d  side. 
Bars  not  my  godlike  progress.  Lo,  the  ocean. 
Its  warm  bays  heaving  with  a tranquil  motion, 
'I'o  my  rapt  vision  opes  its  ample  tide  1 
But  now  at  length  the  god  appears  to  sink  ! 

A new-born  impulse  wings  my  flight. 

Onward  I press,  his  quenchless  light  to  drink, 
d'he  day  before  me,  and  behind  the  night. 

The  pathless  waves  beneath,  and  over  me  the 
skies. 

Fair  dream,  it  vanish’d  with  the  parting  day  1 
Alas  ! that  when  on  spirit-wing  we  rise. 

No  wing  material  lifts  our  mortal  clay. 

But  ’tis  our  inborn  impulse,  deep  and  strong. 
Upwards  and  onwards  still  to  urge  our  flight. 
When  far  above  us  pours  its  thrilling  song 
d’he  sky-lark,  lost  in  azure  light. 

When  on  extended  wing  amain 

O’er  pine-crown’d  height  the  eagle  soars, 

And  over  moor  and  lake,  the  crane 
Still  striveth  towards  its  native  shores. 

Wagner.  To  strange  conceits  oft  I myself 
must  own. 

But  impulse  such  as  this  I ne’er  have  known  ; 
Nor  woods,  nor  fields,  can  long  our  thoughts 
. engage. 

Their  wings  I envy  not  the  feather’d  kind  ; 
Far  otherwise  the  pleasures  of  the  mind. 

Bear  us  from  book  to  book,  from  page  to  page ! 


24 


Then  winter  nights  grow  cheerful ; keen  delight 
Warms  every  limb  ; and  ah  ! when  we  unroll 
Some  old  and  precious  parchment,  at  the  sight 
All  heaven  itself  descends  upon  the  soul. 
Faust.  Your  heart  by  one  sole  impulse  is 
possess’d  ; 

Unconscious  of  the  other  still  remain  ! 

Two  souls,  alas!  are  lodg’d  within  my  breast. 
Which  struggle  there  for  undivided  reign: 

One  to  the  world,  with  obstinate  desire. 

And  closely-cleaving  organs,  still  adheres ; 
.Above  the  mist,  the  other  doth  aspire. 

With  sacred  vehemence,  to  purer  spheres. 

Oh,  are  there  spirits  in  the  air. 

Who  float  ’twixt  heaven  and  earth  dominion 
wielding. 

Stoop  hither  from  your  golden  atmosphere. 
Lead  me  to  scenes,  new  life  and  fuller  yielding ! 
A magic  mantle  did  I but  possess, 

Abroad  to  waft  me  as  on  viewless  wings. 

I’d  prize  it  far  beyond  the  costliest  dress. 

Nor  would  I change  it  for  the  robe  of  kings. 
Wagner.  Call  not  the  spirits  who  on  mis- 
chief wait ! 

Their  troop  familiar,  streaming  through  the  air. 
From  every  tpiarter  threaten  man’s  estate. 

And  danger  in  a thousand  forms  prepare  1 
d’hey  drive  impetuous  from  the  frozen  north. 
With  fangs  sharp-piercing,  and  keen  arrowy 
tongues. ; 

From  the  ungenial  east  they  issue  forth. 

And  prey,  with  j)arching  breath,  upon  your 
lungs; 

If,  wafted  on  the  desert’s  flaming  wing, 

'I'hey  from  the  south  heap  fire  upon  the  brain, 
Refreshment  from  the  west  at  first  they  bring. 
Anon  to  drown  thyself  and  field  and  plain. 

In  wait  for  mischief,  they  are  prompt  to  hear; 


With  guileful  purpose  our  behests  obey; 

Like  ministers  of  grace  they  oft  appear. 

And  lisp  like  angels,  to  betray. 

But  let  us  hence  ! Gray  eve  doth  all  things 
blend. 

The  air  grows  chill,  the  mists  de.scend  ! 

’Tis  in  the  evening  first  our  home  we  prize — 

Why  stand  you  thus,  and  gaze  with  wondering 
eyes  ? 

What  in  the  gloom  thus  moves  you  ? 

Faust.  Yon  black  hound 

Seest  thou,  through  corn  and  stubble  scamper- 
ing round  ? 

Wagner.  I’ve  mark’d  him  long,  naught 
strange  in  him  I see  ! 

Faust.  Note  him  ! . What  takest  thou  the 
brute  to  be  ? 

Wagner.  But  for  a poodle,  whom  his  in- 
stinbl  serves 

His  master’s  track  to  find  once  more. 

Faust.  Dost  mark  how  round  us,  with 
wide  spiral  curves. 

He  wheels,  each  circle  closer  than  before? 

And,  if  I err  not,  he  appears  to  me 

.A  fiery  whirlpool  in  his  track  to  leave. 

Wagner.  Naught  but  a poodle  black  of 
hue  I see ; 

’Tis  some  illusion  doth  your  sight  deceive. 

Faust.  Methinks  a magic  coil  our  feet 
around. 

He  for  a future  snare  doth  lightly  spread. 

Wagner.  Around  us  as  in  doubt  I see  him 
shyly  bound. 

Since  he  two  strangers  seeth  in  his  master’s 
stead. 

Faust.  The  circle  narrows,  he’s  already  near. 

Wagner.  A dog  dost  see,  no  spebtre  have 
we  here ; 


25 


He  growls,  doubts,  lays  him  on  his  belly  too. 
And  wags  his  tail — as  dogs  are  wont  to  do. 
Faust.  Come  hither.  Sirrah  ! join  our 
company ! 

Wagner.  A very  poodle,  he  appears  to  be  ! 
'I'liou  standest  still,  for  thee  he’ll  wait ; 

'I'hou  speak’st  to  him,  he  fawns  uj)on  thee 
straight ; 

.\ light  you  may  lose,  again  he’ll  bring. 

And  for  your  stick  will  into  water  sjiring. 
Faust.  Thoii’rt  right  indeed ; no  traces 
now  I see 

Whatever  of  a spirit’s  agency. 

’Tis  training- — nothing  more. 

^VAGNER.  A dog  well  taught 

E’en  by  the  wisest  of  us  may  be  sought. 

Ay,  to  your  favor  he’s  entitled  too. 

Apt  scholar  of  the  students,  ’tis  his  due  ! 

\_They  enter  the  gate  of  the  town. 

Study. 

Faust.  ( Entering  with  the  poodle. ) 

Behind  me  now  lie  field  and  plain. 

As  night  her  veil  doth  o’er  them  draw. 

Our  better  soul  resumes  her  reign 
With  feelings  of  foreboding  awe. 

Lull’d  is  each  stormy  deed  to  rest. 

And  tranquilliz’d  each  wild  desire; 

Pure  charity  doth  warm  the  breast. 

And  love  to  God  the  soul  inspire. 

Peace,  poodle,  peace ! Scamper  not  thus ; 
obey  me  ! 

Why  at  the  threshold  snuffest  thou  so  ? 

Behind  the  stove  now  quietly  lay  thee. 

My  softest  cushion  to  thee  I’ll  throw. 

As  thou,  without,  didst  please  and  amuse  me. 
Running  and  frisking  about  on  the  hill. 
Neither  shelter  will  I refuse  thee  ; 

A welcome  guest,  if  thou’ It  be  still. 

.Ah  ! when  within  our  narrow  room 
The  friendly  lamp  again  doth  glow. 

An  inward  light  dispels  the  gloom 
In  hearts  that  strive  themselves  to  know. 
Reason  begins  again  to  speak. 

Again  the  bloom  of  hope  returns. 

The  streams  of  life  we  fain  would  seek. 

Ah,  for  life’s  source  our  spirit  yearns. 

Cease,  poodle,  cease  ! with  the  tone  that  arises, 
Hallow’d  and  peaceful,  my  soul  within, 
.Accords  not  thy  growl,  thy  bestial  din. 

We  find  it  not  strange,  that  man  despises 
What  he  conceives  not ; 

The  good  and  the  fair  he  misprizes ; 

What  lies  beyond  him  he  doth  contemn  ; 
Snarleth  the  poodle  at  it,  like  men  ? 


But  ah  ! E’en  now  I feel,  howe’er  I yearn 
for  rest. 

Contentment  welleth  up  no  longer  in  my 
breast. 

Yet  wherefore  must  the  stream,  alas,  so  soon 
be  dry. 

That  we  once  more  athirst  should  lie? 

I This  sad  experience  oft  I’ve  approv’d  ! 

'I'lie  want  admitteth  of  compensation  ; 

We  learn  to  ])iize  what  from  sense  is  remov’d. 
Our  spirits  yearn  for  revelation. 

Which  nowhere  burneth  with  beauty  blent. 
More  pure  than  in  the  New  Testament. 

To  the  ancient  text  an  imjmlse  strong 
Moves  me  the  volume  to  explore. 

And  to  translate  its  sacred  lore, 

Into  the  tones  beloved  of  the  German  tongue. 

[//c  opens  a volnine  and  applies  himself  to  it. 
’I'is  writ,  “ In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  !” 
I jiause,  perplex’d  ! Who  now  will  help  afford  ? 
I cannot  the  mere  Word  so  highly  prize; 

I must  translate  it  otherwise. 

If  by  the  spirit  guided  as  I read. 

“In  the  beginning  was  the  Sense !”  Take  heed. 
The  import  of  this  juimal  sentence  weigh. 
Lest  thy  too  hasty  jien  be  led  astray ! 

Is  force  creative  then  of  Sense  the  dower? 
“In  the  beginning  was  the  Power!” 

Thus  should  it  stand  : yet,  while  the  line  I trace, 
A something  warns  me,  once  more  to  efface. 
The  spirit  aids!  from  anxious  scruples  freed, 

I write,  “In  the  beginning  was  the  Deed  !” 

Am.  I with  thee  my  room  to  share. 

Poodle,  thy  barking  now  forbear, 

Forbear  thy  howling ! 

Comrade  so  noisy,  ever  growling, 

I cannot  suffer  here  to  dwell. 

One  or  the  other,  mark  me  well, 

P'orthwith  must  leave  the  cell. 

I’m  loath  the  guest-right  to  withhold; 

The  door’s  ajar,  the  passage  clear; 

But  what  must  now  mine  eyes  behold ! 

Are  nature’s  laws  suspended  here? 

Real  is  it,  or  a phantom  show? 

In  length  and  breadth  how  doth  my  poodle 
grow ! 

He  lifts  himself  with  threat’ning  mien. 

In  likeness  of  a dog  no  longer  seen  ! 
j What  spedtre  have  I harbor’d  thus ! 

I Huge  as  a hippopotamus. 

With  fiery  eye,  terrific  tooth  ! 

Ah  ! now  I know  thee,  sure  enough  ! 

For  such  a base,  half-hellish  brood, 
i The  key  of  Solomon  is  good. 


26 


Spirits.  (Without.)  Captur’d  there  within 
is  one ! 

Stay  witliont  and  follow  none! 

Lake  a fox  in  iron  snare, 

Hell’s  old  lynx  is  quaking  there, 

But  take  heed ! 

Plover  round,  above,  below. 

To  and  fro. 

Then  from  durance  is  he  freed  ! 

Can  ye  aid  him,  spirits  all. 

Leave  him  not  in  mortal  thrall! 

Many  a time  and  oft  hath  he 
Served  us.  when  at  liberty. 


Faust,  d'he  monster  to  confront,  at  first. 
The  spell  of  Four  must  be  rehears’d  ; 

Salamander  shall  kindle. 

Writhe  nymph  of  the  wave. 

In  air  sylph  shall  dwindle. 

And  Kobold  shall  slave. 

Who  doth  ignore 
'I'he  primal  Four, 

Nor  knows  aright 
Their  use  and  might. 

O’er  sjhrits  will  he 
Ne’er  master  be  ! 


n 


\';inish  in  the  fiery  glow, 

Salamander ! 

Rushingly  together  flow, 

Undine ! 

Shimmer  in  the  meteor’s  gleam, 

Sylphide ! 

Hither  bring  thine  homely  aid. 

Incubus!  Incubus! 

Step  forth  ! 1 do  adjure  thee  thus ! 

None  of  the  Four 
Lurks  in  the  beast: 

1 le  grins  at  me,  untroubled  as  before ; 

I have  not  hurt  him  in  the  least. 

A spell  of  fear 
Thou  now  shalt  hear. 

Art  thou,  comrade  fell. 

Fugitive  from  Hell? 

See  then  this  sign. 

Before  which  incline 
The  murky  troops  of  Hell  ! 

W ith  bristling  hair  now  doth  the  creature  swell. 

Canst  thou,  reprobate. 

Read  the  uncreate. 

Unspeakable,  diffused 
'bhroughout  the  heavenly  sphere, 
Sliamefully  abused. 

Transpierc’d  with  nail  and  spear  ! 

Behind  the  stove,  tam’d  by  my  spells. 

Like  an  elephant  he  swells; 

Wholly  now  he  fills  the  room, 

He  into  mist  will  melt  away. 

Ascend  not  to  the  ceiling  ! Come, 

Thyself  at  the  master’s  feet  now  lay! 
d'hou  seest  that  mine  is  no  idle  threat. 

^\'ith  holy  fire  I will  scorch  thee  yet ! 

Wait  not  the  might 

That  lies  in  the  triple-glowing  light  ! 

^\’ait  not  the  might 

Of  all  my  arts  in  fullest  measure  ! 

Mephis.  (As  the  mist  sinks,  comes  forivard 
from  behind  the  stove,  in  the  dress  of  a 
travelling  scholar. ) 

Why  all  this  uproar?  What’s  the  master’s 
pleasure  ? 

Faust.  This  then  the  kernel  of  the  brute! 
A travelling  scholar?  Why  I needs  must 
smile. 

MEPttis.  Your  learned  reverence  humbly  I 
salute  ! 

You’ve  made  me  swelter  in  a pretty  style. 
Faust.  Thy  name? 

Mephis.  The  question  trifling  seems  from 
one. 


Who  it  appears  the  Word  doth  rate  so  low ; 
Who,  undeluded  by  mere  outward  show. 

To  Being’s  depths  would  penetrate  alone. 

Faust.  With  gentlemen  like  you  indeed 
The  inward  essence  from  the  name  we  read. 

As  all  too  jilainly  it  doth  appear. 

When  Beelzebub,  Destroyer,  Liar,  meets  the 
ear. 

\\'ho  then  art  thou  ! 

Mephis.  Part  of  that  power  which  still 
Produceth  good,  whilst  ever  scheming  ill. 
Faust.  W’hat  hidden  mystery  in  this  riddle 
lies? 

I Mephis.  The  spirit  I,  which  evermore  de- 
nies ! 

And  justly;  for  whate’er  to  light  is  brought 
Deserves  again  to  be  reduc’d  to  naught ; 

^ Then  better  ’twere  that  naught  should  be. 

Thus  all  the  elements  which  ye 
' Destrudfion,  Sin,  or  briefly.  Evil,  name, 

! As  my  peculiar  element  I claim, 
j Faust.  Thou  nam’st  thyself  a part,  and 
yet  a whole  I see. 

I Mephis.  The  modest  truth  I speak  to  thee. 

I Though  folly’s  microcosm,  man,  it  seems. 
Himself  to  be  a perfedt  whole  esteems. 

Part  of  the  part  am  I,  which  at  the  first  was 
all. 

A part  of  darkness,  which  gave  birth  to  light. 
Proud  light,  who  now  his  mother  would 
enthrall. 

Contesting  space  and  ancient  rank  with  night. 
Yet  he  succeedeth  not,  for  struggle  as  he  will. 
To  forms  material  he  adhereth  still ; 

From  them  he  streameth,  them  he  maketh  fair. 
And  still  the  progress  of  his  beams  they  check  ; 
And  so,  I trust,  when  comes  the  final  wreck. 
Light  will,  ere  long,  the  doom  of  matter  share. 

Faust.  Thy  worthy  avocation  now  I guess ! 
Wholesale  annihilation  won’t  prevail. 

So  thou’rt  beginning  on  a smaller  scale. 

Mephis.  And,  to  say  truth,  as  yet  with  small 
success. 

Oppos’d  to  nothingness,  the  world. 

This  clumsy  mass,  subsisteth  still ; 

Not  yet  is  it  to  ruin  hurl’d. 

Despite  the  efforts  of  my  will. 

Tempests  and  earthquakes,  fire  and  flood,  I’ve 
tried  ; 

Yet  land  and  ocean  still  unchang’d  abide! 
And  then  of  humankind  and  beasts,  the  ac- 
cursed brood, — 

Neither  o’er  them  can  I extend  my  sway. 

I What  countless  myriads  have  I swept  away  ! 
i Yet  ever  circulates  the  fresh  young  blood. 


28 


FAUS'r. 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


THE  VIbJON  OF  FAUST. 


It  is  enough  to  drive  me  to  despair ! 

As  in  the  earth,  in  water,  and  in  air. 

In  moisture  and  in  drought,  in  heat  and  cold. 
Thousands  of  germs  their  energies  unfold  ! 

If  fire  I had  not  for  myself  retain’d. 

No  sphere  whatever  had  for  me  remain’d. 

Faust.  So  thou  with  thy  cold  devil’s  fist. 
Still  clench’d  in  malice  impotent. 

Dost  the  creative  power  resist. 

The  adtive,  the  beneficent ! 

Henceforth  some  other  task  essay. 

Of  Chaos  thou  the  wondrous  son  ! 

Mephis.  We  will  consider  what  you  say. 
And  talk  about  it  more  anon ! 

For  this  time  have  I leave  to  go? 

Faust.  Why  thou  shouldst  ask,  I cannot  see. 
Since  one  another  now  we  know. 

At  thy  good  pleasure,  visit  me. 

Here  is  the  window,  here  the  door. 

The  chimney,  too,  may  serve  thy  need. 

Mephis.  I must  confess,  my  stepping  o’er 
Thy  threshold  a slight  hindrance  doth  im- 
pede; 

The  wizard-foot  doth  me  retain. 

Faust.  The  pentagram  thy  peace  doth  mar? 
To  me,  thou  son  of  hell,  explain. 

How  earnest  thou  in,  if  this  thine  exit  bar  ! 
Could  such  a spirit  aught  ensnare? 

Mephis.  Observe  it  well,  it  is  not  drawn 
with  care. 

One  of  the  angles,  that  which  points  without. 
Is,  as  thou  seest,  not  quite  closed. 

Faust.  Chance  hath  the  matter  happily 
dispos’d  ! 

So  thou  my  captive  art  ? No  doubt  ! 

By  accident  thou  thus  art  caught  ! 

Mephis.  In  sprang  the  dog,  indeed,  observ- 
ing naught ; 

Things  now  assume  another  shape. 

The  devil’s  in  the  house  and  can’t  escape. 
Faust.  Why  through  the  window  not  with- 
draw ? 

Mephis.  For  ghosts  and  for  the  devil  ’tis 
a law. 

Where  they  stole  in,  there  they  must  forth. 
We’re  free 

The  first  to  choose;  as  to  the  second,  slaves 
are  we. 

Faust.  E’en  hell  hath  its  peculiar  laws,  I 
see ! 

I’m  glad  of  that!  a pa6I  may  then  be  made. 
The  which,  you  gentlemen,  will  surely  kee]>? 
Mephis.  Whate’er  therein  is  promis’d  thou 
shalt  reap. 

No  tittle  shall  remain  unpaid. 

But  such  arrangements  time  require; 


We’ll  speak  of  them  when  next  we  meet; 

Most  earnestly  I now  entreat. 

This  once  permission  to  retire. 

Faust.  Another  moment  prithee  here  re- 
main. 

Me  with  some  happy  word  to  pleasure. 

Mephis.  Now  let  me  go  ! ere  long  I’ll  come 
again. 

Then  thou  mayst  question  at  thy  leisure. 

Faust.  To  capture  thee  was  not  my  will. 
Thyself  hast  freely  entered  in  the  snare: 

Let  him  who  holds  the  devil,  liold  him  still ! 

A second  time  so  soon  he  will  not  catch  him 
there. 

Mephis.  If  it  so  please  thee.  I’m  at  thy 
command ; 

Only  on  this  condition,  understand  ; 

That  worthily  thy  leisure  to  beguile, 

I here  may  exercise  my  arts  awhile. 

Faust.  Thou’ rt  free  to  do  so  ! Gladly  I’ll 
attend  ; 

But  be  thine  art  a pleasant  one  ! 

Mephis.  My  friend. 

This  hour  enjoyment  more  intense. 

Shall  captivate  each  ravish’d  sense. 

Than  thou  could’st  compass  m the  bound 
Of  the  whole  year’s  unvarying  round  ; 

And  what  the  dainty  spirits  sing. 

The  lovely  images  they  bring. 

Are  no  fantastic  sorcery. 

I Rich  odors  shall  regale  your  smell. 

On  choicest  sweets  your  palate  dwell. 

Your  feelings  thrill  with  ecstasy. 

No  preparation  do  we  need. 

Here  we  together  are.  Proceed  ! 

Spirits.  Hence  overshadowing  gloom 
Vanish  from  sight ! 

O’er  us  thine  azure  dome. 

Bend,  beauteous  light! 

Dark  clouds  that  o’er  us  spread. 

Melt  in  thin  air  ! 

Stars,  your  soft  radiance  shed. 

Tender  and  fair. 

Girt  with  celestial  might. 

Winging  their  airy  flight. 

Spirits  are  thronging. 

Follows  their  forms  of  light 
Infinite  longing  ! 

Flutter  their  vestures  bright 
O’er  field  and  grove  ! 

Where  in  their  leafy  bower 
Lovers  the  livelong  hour 
Vow  deathless  love. 

Soft  bloometh  bud  and  bower  ! 
Bloometh  the  grove  ! 

Grapes  from  the  spreading  vine 


29 


Crown  the  full  measure; 
Fountains  of  foaming  wine 
Gush  from  the  pressure. 

Still  where  the  currents  wind, 
Gems  brightly  gleam. 

Leaving  the  hills  behind 
( )n  rolls  the  stream  ; 

Now  into  ample  seas, 

Spieadeth  the  Hood  ; 
l.a\  ing  the  sunny  leas. 

Mantled  with  wood. 

Rapture  the  feather’d  throng, 
Gayly  careering, 

Sip  as  they  Hoat  along  ; 

Sunward  they’re  steering  ; 

On  towards  the  isles  of  light 
Winging  their  way. 

That  on  the  waters  bright 
1 tancingly  play. 

Hark  to  the  choral  strain. 
Joyfully  ringing  ! 

While  on  the  grassy  plain 
Dancers  are  springing ; 

Climbing  the  steep  hill’s  side, 
.Skimming  the  glassy  tide. 
Wander  they  there; 

Others  on  pinions  wide 
Wing  the  blue  air  ; 

On  towards  the  living  stream. 
Towards  yonder  stars  that  gleam, 
Far,  far  away ; 

Seeking  their  tender  beam 
Wing  they  their  way. 


Mkphis.  Well  done,  my  dainty  spirits ! 
now  he  slumbers ; 

Ye  have  entranc’d  him  fairly  with  your  num- 
bers ; 

This  minstrelsy  of  yours  I must  repay. — 

Thou  art  not  yet  the  man  to  hold  the  devil 
fast  ! — 

With  fairest  shapes  your  spells  around  him 
cast. 

And  plunge  him  in  a sea  of  dreams! 

But  that  this  charm  be  rent,  the  threshold 
pass’d, 

I'ooth  of  rat  the  way  must  clear. 

I need  not  conjure  long  it  seems. 

One  rustles  hitherward,  and  soon  my  voice 
will  hear. 

The  master  of  the  rats  and  mice. 

Of  flies  and  frogs,  of  bugs  and  lice. 
Commands  thy  presence;  without  fear 
C'ome  forth  and  gnaw  the  threshold  here, 
\Vhere  he  with  oil  has  smear’d  it. — Thou 
Com’st  hopping  forth  already  ! Now 
'I'o  work  ! 'riie  jtoint  that  holds  me  bound 
Is  in  the  outer  angle  found. 

Another  bite — so — now  ’tis  done — 

Now,  Faustus,  till  we  meet  again,  dream 
on. 

Faust.  (Aioaking^.)  Am  I once  more  de- 
luded ! must  I deem 

'I'his  troop  of  thronging  spirits  all  ideal? 

'I'he  devil’s  presence,  was  it  nothing  real? 

The  poodle’s  disairpearance  but  a dream? 


7,0 


Stiii/y. 

Faust.  Mephistoitieles. 

Faust.  A knock?  Come  in  ! Who  now 
would  break  my  rest  ? 

Mephis.  ’Tis  I ! 

Faust.  Come  in  ! 

Mephis.  Tlirice  lie  the  words  exiiress’d. 
Faust.  Then  1 repeat,  Come  in  ! 

Mephis.  ’ d'is  well, 

I hope  that  we  shall  soon  agree  ! 

For  now  your  fancies  to  ex[iel. 

Here,  as  a youth  of  high  degree, 

1 come  in  gold-lac’d  scarlet  vest. 

And  stiff  silk  mantle  richly  dress’d, 

.\  cock’s  gay  feather  for  a plume, 

.'V  long  and  pointed  raiuer,  too  ; 

And  briefly  I would  counsel  you 
To  don  at  once  the  same  costume. 

And,  free  from  trammels,  speed  away. 

That  what  life  is  you  may  essay. 

Faust.  In  every  garb  1 needs  muit  feel 
oppress’ d , 

My  heart  to  earth’s  low  cares  a prey. 

Too  old  the  trifler’s  part  to  play. 

Too  young  to  live  by  no  desire  ])ossess’il. 
What  can  the  world  to  me  afford  ? 

Renounce  ! renounce  ! is  still  the  word  ; 

'I'his  is  the  everlasting  song 
In  every  ear  that  ceaseless  rings, 

And  which,  alas,  our  whole  life  long. 

Hoarsely  each  passing  moment  sings. 

But  to  new  horror  I awake  each  morn, 

.\nd  I could  weep  hot  tears  to  see  the  sun 
Dawn  on  another  day,  whose  round  forlorn 
Accomplishes  no  wish  of  mine — not  one; 


Which  still,  with  froward  captiousness,  im- 
pairs 

F’en  the  presentiment  of  every  joy. 

While  low  realities  and  paltry  cares 
'I'he  spirit’s  fond  imaginings  destroy. 

And  must  I then,  when  falls  the  veil  of  night. 
Stretch’d  on  my  pallet  languish  in  despair; 
Appalling  dreams  my  soul  affright ; 

No  rest  vouchsaf’d  me  even  there. 

The  god,  who  thron’d  within  my  breast  resides, 
Deej)  in  my  soul  can  stir  the  s|)rings ; 

With  sovereign  sway  my  energies  he  guides. 
He  cannot  move  external  things; 

.\nd  so  existence  is  to  me  a weight. 

Death  fondly  I desire,  and  life  I hate. 

Mephis.  And  yet,  methinks,  by  most  ’twill 
be  confess’d 

'Fhat  Death  is  never  cpiite  a welcome  guest. 
Faust.  Hapjiy  the  man  around  whose  brow 
he  liinds 

The  bloodstain’d  wreath  in  concpiest’s  dazzling 
hour ; 

Or  whom,  excited  by  the  dance,  he  finds 
Dissolv’tl  in  bliss,  in  love’s  delii  ions  liower ! 

< )h  that  before  the  lofty  spirit’s  might. 
Enraptured,  1 had  render’d  up  my  soul  ! 
Mephis.  Yet  did  a certain  man  refrain  one 
"iglit, 

Of  its  brown  juice  to  drain  the  crystal  bowl. 
Faust.  To  play  the  spy  diverts  you  then? 
Mephis.  1 own. 

Though  not  omniscient,  much  to  me  is  known. 
Faust.  If  o’er  my  soul  the  tone  familiar, 
stealing. 

Drew  me  from  harrowing  thought’s  be  wild’ ring 
maze. 


Toucliing  the  ling’ring  chords  of  childlike 
feeling, 

With  the  sweet  harmonies  of  happier  days: 

So  curse  I all,  around  the  soul  that  windeth 
Its  magic  and  alluring  spell, 

And  with  delusive  flattery  bindeth 
Its  viclim  to  this  dreary  cell ! 

Curs’d  before  all  things  be  the  high  opinion. 
Wherewith  the  spirit  girds  itself  around  ! 

Of  shows  delusive  curs’d  be  the  dominion, 
^\'ithin  whose  mocking  sphere  our  sense  is 
bound  ! 

Accurs’d  of  dreams  the  treacherous  wiles. 

The  cheat  of  glory,  deathless  fame  ! 

Accurs’d  what  each  as  projierty  beguiles, 

W'ife,  child,  slave,  plough,  whate’er  its  name ! 
Accurs’d  be  mammon,  when  with  treasure 
He  doth  to  daring  deeds  incite  : 

Or  when  to  steep  the  soul  in  jfleastire. 

He  spreads  the  couch  of  soft  delight  ! 

Curs’d  be  the  grape’s  balsamic  juice  ! 

Accurs’d  love’s  dream,  of  joys  the  first ! 
Accurs’d  be  ho]je  ! accurs’d  be  faith  ! 

And  more  than  all,  be  patience  curs’d  ! 

Chorus  of  Spirits.  ( Invisible.)  Woe ! woe ! 
I'hou  hast  destroy’d 
'I'he  beautiful  world 
With  violent  blow; 

’Tis  shiver’d  ! ’tis  shatter’d  ! 

The  fragments  abroad  by  a demigod  scatter’d  ! 
Now  we  sweep 

The  wrecks  into  nothingness  ! 

Fondly  we  weep 
The  beauty  that’s  gone  ! 

Thou,  ’mongst  the  sons  of  earth. 

Lofty  and  mighty  one. 

Build  it  once  more  ! 

In  thine  own  bosom  the  lost  world  restore  ! 
Now  with  unclouded  sense 
Enter  a new  career; 

Songs  shall  salute  thine  ear. 

Ne’er  heard  before  ! 

Mephis.  My  little  ones  these  spirits  be. 
Hark  ! with  shrewd  intelligence. 

How  they  recommend  to  thee, 

A6tion,  and  the  joys  of  sense  ! 

In  the  busy  world  to  dwell. 

Fain  they  would  allure  thee  hence  : 

For  within  this  lonely  cell. 

Stagnates  sap  of  life  and  sense. 

Forbear  to  trifle  longer  with  thy  grief. 

Which,  vulture-like,  consumes  thee  in  this  den. 
The  worst  .society  is  some  relief. 

Making  thee  feel  thyself  a man  with  men. 
Nathless  it  is  not  meant,  I trow. 


I To  thrust  thee  ’mid  the  vulgar  throng. 

I to  the  upper  ranks  do  not  belong ; 

Yet  if,  by  me  companion’d,  thou 
Thy  steps  through  life  forthwith  wilt  take. 
Upon  the  spot  myself  I’ll  make 
Thy  comrade ; — 

Should  it  suit  thy  need, 

; I am  thy  servant,  and  thy  slave  indeed  ! 

Faust.  And  how  must  I thy  services  re- 
pay ? 

Mephis.  Thereto  thou  lengthen’d  respite 
hast  ! 

Faust.  No  ! no  ! 

The  devil  is  an  egotist  I know : 

And,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  ’tis  not  his  way 
Kindness  to  any  one  to  show. 

Let  the  condition  plainly  be  express’d; 

Such  a domestic  is  a dangerous  guest. 

Mephis.  I’ll  pledge  myself  to  be  thy  ser- 
vant here, 

Still  at  thy  back  alert  and  prompt  to  be ; 

But  when  together  _)WA/cr  we  appear. 

Then  shalt  thou  do  the  same  for  me. 

Faust.  But  small  concern  I feel  for  yonder 
world  ; 

Hast  thou  this  system  into  ruin  hurl’d. 
Another  may  arise  the  void  to  fill. 

This  earth  the  fountain  whence  my  pleasures 
flow. 

This  sun  doth  daily  shine  upon  my  woe. 

And  if  this  world  I must  forego. 

Let  happen  then, — what  can  and  will. 

I to  this  theme  will  close  mine  ears. 

If  men  hereafter  hate  and  love. 

And  if  there  be  in  yonder  spheres 
A depth  below  or  height  above. 

Mephis.  In  this  mood  thou  mayst  venture 
it.  But  make 

The  compadt,  and  at  once  I’ll  undertake 
To  charm  thee  with  mine  arts.  I’ll  give  thee 
more 

Than  mortal  eye  hath  e’er  beheld  before. 
Faust.  W'hat,  sorry  Devil,  hast  thou  to 
bestow  ? 

Was  ever  mortal  spirit,  in  its  high  endeavor. 
Fathom’d  by  Being  such  as  thou? 

Yet  food  thou  hast  which  satisfieth  never. 

Hast  ruddy  gold,  that  still  doth  flow 
Like  restless  quicksilver  away, 

A game  thou  hast,  at  which  none  win  who  play, 
A girl  who  would,  with  amorous  eyen. 

E’en  from  my  breast,  a neighbor  snare. 

Lofty  ambition’s  joy  divine. 

That,  meteor-like,  dissolves  in  air. 

Showme  the  fruit  that,  ere  ’tis  pluck’d,  doth  rot, 
And  trees,  whose  verdure  daily  buds  anew. 


32 


Mephis.  Such  a commission  scares  me  not, 
I can  provide  such  treasures,  it  is  true  ; 

But,  my  good  friend,  a season  will  come 
round 

When  on  what’s  good  we  may  regale  in  peace. 
Faust.  If  e’er  upon  my  couch,  stretch’d 
at  my  ease.  I’m  found. 

Then  may  my  life  that  instant  cease ; 

Me  canst  thou  cheat  with  glozing  wile 
d'ill  self-reproach  away  I cast? — 

Me  with  joy’s  lure  canst  thou  beguile? — 

Let  that  day  be  for  me  the  last  ! 

Be  this  our  wager! 

Mephis.  Settl’d  ! 

Faust.  Sure  and  fast ! 

When  to  the  moment  I shall  say, 

“Linger  awhile,  so  fair  thou  art  !’’ 

'bhen  mayst  thou  fetter  me  straightway. 


Then  to  the  abyss  will  I dejiart  ; 

Tlien  may  the  solemn  death-bell  sound, 
d'hen  from  thy  service  thou  art  free, 
d'he  index  then  may  cease  its  round. 

And  time  be  never  more  for  me! 

Mephis.  I shall  remember:  pause,  ere  ’tis 
too  late. 

Faust.  bhereto  a perfe6I  right  hast 
thou. 

My  strength  I do  not  rashly  overrate. 

Slave  am  I here,  at  any  rate. 

If  thine,  or  whose,  it  matters  not,  I trow. 

Mephis.  At  thine  inaugural  feast  I will  this 
day 

Attend,  my  duties  to  commence. — 

But  one  thing! — Accidents  may  happen, 
hence 

A line  or  two  in  writing  grant,  I pray. 


Faust.  A writing,  Pedant  ! dost  demand 
from  me  ? 

Man,  and  man’s  plighted  word,  are  these  un- 
known to  thee  ? 

Is’t  not  enough,  that  by  tlie  word  I gave. 

My  doom  for  evermore  is  cast? 

Doth  not  the  world  in  all  its  currents  rave, 
And  must  a promise  hold  me  fast? 

Yet  fixed  is  this  delusion  in  our  heart ; 

Who,  of  his  own  free  will,  therefrom  would 
part  ? 

How  blest  within  whose  breast  truth  reigneth 
pure  ! 

No  sacrifice  will  he  repent  when  made  ! 

A formal  deed,  with  seal  and  signature, 

A spedtre  this  from  which  all  shrink  afraid. 
The  word  its  life  resigneth  in  the  pen. 

Feather  and  wax  usiirj)  the  mastery  then. 

Spirit  of  evil  ! what  dost  thou  require? 

Brass,  marble,  parchment,  paper,  dost  de- 
sire ? 

Shall  I with  chisel,  J)en,  or  graver  write? 

Thy  choice  is  free ; to  me  ’tis  all  the  same. 

IVIephis.  Wherefore  thy  passion  so  excite. 
And  thus  thine  eloquence  inflame? 

A scrap  is  for  our  comjiadl  good. 

'I'hou  uudersignest  merely  with  a drop  of 
blood. 

Faust.  If  this  will  satisfy  thy  mind. 

Thy  whim  I’ll  gratify,  howe’er  absurd. 

IVIephis.  Blood  is  a juice  of  very  special 
kind. 

Faust.  Be  not  afraid  that  I shall  break  my 
word  ! 

The  scope  of  all  my  energy 

Is  in  exaifl  accordance  with  my  vow. 

Vainly  I have  aspir’d  too  high  ; 

I’m  on  a level  but  with  such  as  thou  ; 

Me  the  great  spirit  scorn’d,  defi’d  ; 

Nature  from  me  herself  doth  hide; 

Rent  is  the  web  of  thought;  my  mind 
Doth  knowledge  loathe  of  every  kind. 

In  depths  of  sensual  pleasure  drown’d, 

Let  us  our  fiery  passions  still  ! 

Enwrapp’d  in  magic’s  veil  profound, 

Let  wondrous  charms  our  senses  thrill  ! 

Plunge  we  in  time’s  tempestuous  flow, 

Stem  we  the  rolling  surge  of  chance  ! 

There  may  alternate  weal  and  woe, 

Succe.ss  and  failure,  as  they  can. 

Mingle  and  shift  in  changeful  dance  ! 
Excitement  is  the  sphere  for  man. 

Mephis.  Nor  goal,  nor  measure  is  prescrib’d 
to  you. 

If  you  desire  to  taste  of  everything. 

To  snatch  at  joy  while  on  the  wing. 


May  your  career  amuse  and  profit  too  ! 

Only  fall  to  and  don’t  be  over  coy  ! 

Eaust.  Hearken  ! The  end  I aim  at  is 
not  joy  ; 

I crave  excitement,  agonizing  bliss, 

' Enamour’d  hatred,  quickening  vexation. 
Purg’d  from  the  love  of  knowledge,  my  voca- 
tion, 

The  scope  of  all  my  powers  henceforth  be  this, 
To  bare  my  breast  to  every  pang, — to  know 
In  my  heart’s  core  all  human  weal  and  woe, 

To  grasp  in  thought  the  lofty  and  the  deep. 
Men’s  various  fortunes  on  my  breast  to  heap, 
And  thus  to  theirs  dilate  my  individual  mind, 
And  share  at  length  with  them  the  shipwreck 
of  mankind. 

Mephis.  Oh,  credit  me,  who  still  as  ages 
I roll, 

I Have  chew’d  this  bitter  fare  from  year  to  year. 
No  mortal,  from  the  cradle  to  the  bier, 

Digests  the  ancient  leaven  ! Know,  this  Whole 
Doth  for  the  Deity  alone  subsist  ! 

He  in  eternal  brightness  doth  exist. 

Us  unto  darkness  he  hath  brought,  and  here 
1 Where  day  and  night  alternate,  is  your  sphere. 
Faust.  But  ’tis  my  will ! 

Mephis.  Well  spoken,  I admit! 

But  one  thing  puzzles  me,  my  friend  ; 

Time’s  short,  art  long  ; methinks  ’twere  fit 
That  you  to  friendly  counsel  should  attend. 

A poet  choose  as  your  ally  ! 

Let  him  thought’s  wide  dominion  sweep. 

Each  good  and  noble  quality, 

I Upon  your  honored  brow  to  heap; 

The  lion’s  magnanimity. 

The  fleetness  of  the  hind. 

The  fiery  blood  of  Italy, 

The  Northern’s  steadfast  mind  ! 

Let  him  to  you  the  mystery  show 
To  blend  high  aims  and  cunning  low ; 

And  while  youth’s  passions  are  aflame 
To  fall  in  love  by  rule  and  plan  ! 

I fain  would  meet  with  such  a man  ; 

Would  him  Sir  Microcosmus  name. 

Faust.  What  then  am  I,  if  I aspire  in  vain 
The  crown  of  our  humanity  to  gain, 

Towards  which  my  every  sense  doth  strain? 
Mephis.  Thou’rt  after  all — just  what  thou 
art. 

Put  on  thy  head  a wig  with  countless  locks, 
Raise  to  a cubit’s  height  thy  learned  socks. 
Still  thou  remainest  ever,  what  thou  art. 
Faust.  I feel  it,  I have  heap’d  upon  my 
brain 

The  gather’d  treasure  of  man’s  thought  in 
vain  ; 


34 


And  when  at  length  from  studious  toil  I rest, 
No  power,  new-born,  springs  up  within  my 
breast ; 

A hair’s  breadth  is  not  added  to  my  height, 

I am  no  nearer  to  the  infinite. 

Mephis.  Good  sir,  these  things  you  view 
indeed. 

Just  as  by  other  men  they’re  view’d  ; 

We  must  more  cleverly  proceed. 

Before  life’s  joys  our  grasp  elude. 

The  devil  ! thou  hast  hands  and  feet. 

And  head  and  heart  are  also  thine  ; 

\Vhat  I enjoy  with  relish  sweet. 

Is  it  on  that  account  less  mine? 

If  for  six  stallions  I can  pay. 

Do  I not  own  their  strength  and  speed? 

A proper  man  I dash  away. 

As  their  two  dozen  legs  were  mine  indeed. 

Up  then,  from  idle  pondering  free. 

And  forth  into  the  world  with  me! 

I tell  you  what : — your  speculative  churl 
Is  like  a beast  which  some  ill  spirit  leads. 

On  barren  wilderness,  in  ceaseless  whirl. 

While  all  around  lie  fair  and  verdant  meads. 
Faust.  But  how  shall  we  begin  ? 

Mephis.  We  will  go  hence  with  speed, 
A place  of  torment  this  indeed ! 

A precious  life,  thyself  to  bore. 

And  some  few  youngsters  evermore! 

Leave  it  to  neighbor  Paunch; — withdraw. 
Why  wilt  thou  plague  thyself  with  thrashing 
straw? 

The  very  best  that  thou  dost  know 
Thou  dar’st  not  to  the  striplings  show. 

One  in  the  passage  now  doth  wait! 

Faust.  I’m  in  no  mood  to  see  him  now. 
Mephis.  Poor  lad ! He  must  be  tired,  I trow; 
He  must  not  go  disconsolate. 

Hand  me  thy  cap  and  gown  ; the  mask 
Is  for  my  purpose  quite  first  rate. 

\_He  changes  his  dress. 
Now  leave  it  to  my  wit ! I ask 
But  quarter  of  an  hour;  meanwhile  equip. 
And  make  all  ready  for  our  pleasant  tri]:> ! 

[A'a'/V  Fau.st. 

Mephis.  (InYK\]S'v'slonggo7vn.)  Mortal! 
the  loftiest  attributes  of  men. 

Reason  and  Knowledge,  only  thus  contemn. 
Still  let  the  Prince  of  lies,  without  control. 
With  shows,  and  mocking  charms  delude  thy 
soul, 

1 have  thee  unconditionally  then  ! — 

Fate  hath  endow’d  him  with  an  ardent  mind. 
Which  unrestrain’d  still  presses  on  for  ever. 
And  whose  precipitate  endeavor 
Earth’s  joys  o’erleaping,  leaveth  them  behind. 


Him  will  I drag  through  life’s  wild  waste, 
'I’hrough  scenes  of  vapid  dulness,  where  at  last 
Bewilder’d,  he  shall  falter,  and  stick  fast; 

And,  still  to  mock  his  greedy  haste. 

Viands  and  drink  shall  float  his  craving  lips 
beyond — - 

Vainly  he’ll  seek  refreshment,  anguish-toss’d. 
And  were  he  not  the  devil’s  by  his  bond. 

Yet  must  his  soul  infallibly  be  lost ! 

A Student  enters. 

Student.  But  recently  I’ve  quitted  home. 
Full  of  devotion  am  I come 
A man  to  know  and  hear,  whose  name 
With  reverence  is  known  to  fame. 

Mephis.  Your  courtesy  much  flatters  me! 
A man  like  other  men  you  see; 

Pray  have  you  yet  applied  elsewhere? 

Student.  I would  entreat  your  friendly 
care ! 

I’ve  youthful  blood  and  courage  high; 

Of  gold  I bring  a fair  supply; 

To  let  me  go  my  mother  was  not  fain  ; 

But  here  I long’d  true  knowledge  to  attain. 
Mephis.  You’ve  hit  upon  the  very  place. 
StudEiVT.  And  yet  my  steps  I would  re- 
trace. 

These  walls,  this  melancholy  room, 

O’erpower  me  with  a sense  of  gloom  ; 

The  space  is  narrow,  nothing  green. 

No  friendly  tree  is  to  be  seen  : 

And  in  these  halls,  with  benches  lin’d. 

Sight,  hearing  fail,  fails  too  my  mind. 

Mephis.  It  all  depends  on  habit.  Thus 
at  first 

The  infant  takes  not  kindly  to  the  breast, 

I But  before  long,  its  eager  thirst 
I Is  fain  to  slake  with  hearty  zest : 
j Thus  at  the  breasts  of  wisdom  day  by  day 
With  keener  relish  you’ll  your  thirst  allay. 
Student.  Upon  her  neck  I fain  would 
hang  with  joy; 

'Fo  reach  it,  say,  what  means  must  I emjiloy  ? 
Mephis.  Explain,  ere  further  time  we 
lose. 

What  special  faculty  you  choose? 

Student.  Profoundly  learned  I would 
grow. 

What  heaven  contains  would  comprehend. 
O’er  earth’s  wide  realm  my  gaze  extend. 
Nature  and  science  I desire  to  know. 

Mephis.  You  are  upon  the  proper  track,  I 
find. 

Take  heed,  let  nothing  dissipate  your  mind. 
Student.  My  heart  and  soul  are  in  the 
chase ! 

'Fhough  to  be  sure  I fain  would  seize. 


35 


On  pleasant  summer  holidays, 

A little  liberty  and  careless  ease. 

Mephis.  Use  well  your  time,  so  rapidly  it 
flies ; 

Method  will  teach  you  time  to  win  ; 

Hence,  my  young  friend,  I would  advise. 

With  college  logic  to  begin  ! 

Then  will  your  mind  be  so  well  brac’d. 

In  Spanish  boots  so  tightly  lac’d, 

'I'hat  on  ’twill  circumspedfly  creep. 

Thought’s  beaten  track  securely  keep. 

Nor  will  it,  ignis-fatuus  like. 

Into  the  jiath  of  error  strike. 

Then  many  a day  they’ll  teach  you  how 
The  mind’s  spontaneous  a6ts,  till  now 
.A.S  eating  and  as  drinking  free. 

Require  a process  ; — one  ! two  ! three  ! 

In  truth  the  subtle  web  of  thought 
Is  like  the  weaver’s  fabric  wrought : 

One  treadle  moves  a thousand  lines. 

Swift  dart  the  shuttles  to  and  fro, 

Unseen  the  threads  together  flow, 

\ thousand  knots  one  stroke  combines. 

'Fhen  forward  steps  your  sage  to  show, 

And  prove  to  you,  it  must  be  so  ; 

The  first  being  so,  and  so  the  second. 

The  third  and  fourth  deduc’d  we  see  ; 

And  if  there  were  no  first  and  second. 

Nor  third  nor  fourth  would  ever  be. 

This,  scholars  of  all  countries  prize, — 

Yet  ’mong  themselves  no  weavers  rise. 

He  who  would  know  and  treat  of  aught  alive. 
Seeks  first  the  living  spirit  thence  to  drive  : 
Then  are  the  lifeless  fragments  in  his  hand. 
There  only  fails,  alas  ! the  spirit-band. 

'I'his  process,  chemists  name,  in  learned  thesis. 
Mocking  themselves,  Natura  e?icheiresis. 
Student.  Your  words  I cannot  fully  com- 
prehend. 

Mephis.  In  a short  time  you  will  improve, 
my  friend. 

When  of  scholastic  forms  you  learn  the  use ; 
And  how  by  method  all  things  to  reduce. 
Student.  So  doth  all  this  my  brain  con- 
found, 

As  if  a mill-wheel  there  were  turning  round. 
Mephis.  And  next,  before  aught  else  you 
learn. 

You  must  with  zeal  to  metaphysics  turn  ! 

There  see  that  you  profoundly  comprehend. 
What  doth  the  limit  of  man’s  brain  transcend; 
For  that  which  is  or  is  not  in  the  head 
A sounding  jflirase  will  serve  you  in  good  stead. 
But  before  all  strive  this  half  year 
From  one  fix’d  order  ne’er  to  swerve  ! 

Five  ledfures  daily  you  must  hear ; 


The  hour  still  jiumTually  obser\'e  ! 

Yourself  with  studious  zeal  prejiare. 

And  closely  in  your  manual  look. 

Hereby  may  you  be  quite  aware 
That  all  he  utters  standeth  in  the  book  ; 

Yet  write  away  without  cessation, 

.\s  at  the  Holy  Ghost’s  didfation  ! 

Studen  r.  This,  Sir,  a second  time  you  need 
not  say  ! 

Your  coun.sel  I ajipreciate  quite  ; 

What  we  possess  in  black  and  white. 

We  can  in  peace  and  comfort  bear  away. 
Mephis.  A faculty  I pray  you  name. 
Student.  For  jurisprudence  .some  distaste 
I own. 

Mephis.  To  me  this  branch  of  science  is 
well  known. 

And  hence  I cannot  your  repugnance  blame. 
Customs  and  laws  in  every  place, 

Like  a'disease,  an  heir-loom  dread. 

Still  trail  their  curse  from  race  to  race. 

And  furtively  abroad  they  spread. 

'I'o  nonsense,  reason’s  self  they  turn  ; 
Beneficence  becomes  a pest ; 

Woe  unto  thee,  that  thou’rt  a grandson  born  ! 
As  for  the  law  born  with  us,  unexpressed  ; — 
That  law,  alas,  none  careth  to  discern. 

Student.  You  deepen  my  dislike.  The 
youth 

Whom  you  instrudl,  is  blest  in  sooth. 

I'o  try  theology  I feel  inclined. 

Mephis.  I would  not  lead  you  willingly 
astray. 

But  as  regards  this  science,  you  will  find. 

So  hard  it  is  to  shun  the  erring  way. 

And  so  much  hidden  jioison  lies  therein. 
Which  scarce  can  you  discern  from  medicine. 
Here  too  it  is  the  best,  to  listen  but  to  one. 
And  by  the  master’s  words  to  swear  alone. 

To  sum  up  all — To  words  hold  fast  ! 

Then  the  .safe  gate  securely  pass’d. 

You’ll  reach  the  fane  of  certainty  at  last. 
Student.  But  then  some  meaning  must 
the  words  convey. 

Mephis.  Right!  But  o’er-anxious  thought, 
you’ll  find  of  no  avail, 

For  there  precisely  where  ideas  fail, 

A word  comes  opportunely  into  play. 

Most  admirable  weapons  words  are  found. 

On  words  a system  we  securely  ground. 

In  words  we  can  convenient!}'  believe. 

Nor  of  a single  jot  can  we  a word  bereave. 

Student.  Your  pardon  for  my  importunity  ; 
Yet  once  more  must  I trouble  you  ; 

On  medicine.  I’ll  thank  you  to  supjily 
I A pregnant  utterance  or  two  ! 


36 


Three  years  ! how  brief  the  appointed  tide  ! 
The  field,  heaven  knows,  is  all  too  wide  ! 

If  but  a friendly  hint  be  thrown, 

’Tis  easier  then  to  feel  one’s  way. 

Mepiiis.  (Aside.)  I’m  weary  of  the  dry 
pedantic  tone, 

And  must  again  the  genuine  devil  jday. 

(Aloud.)  Of  medicine  the  spirit’s  caught 
with  ease. 

The  great  and  little  world  you  study  through, 
That  things  may  then  their  course  pursue. 

As  heaven  may  jdease. 

In  vain  abroad  you  range  through  science’ 
amjde  space, 

Each  man  learns  only  that  which  learn  he  can  ; 
Who  knows  the  moment  to  embrace, 

He  is  your  j)roper  man. 

In  ])erson  you  are  tolerably  made. 

Nor  in  assurance  will  you  be  deficient: 
Self-confidence  acquire,  be  not  afraid. 

Others  will  then  esteem  you  a proficient. 


Learn  chiefly  with  the  se.x  to  deal  ! 

Their  thousand  ahs  and  ohs. 

These  the  sage  doftor  knows. 

He  only  from  one  point  can  heal. 

Assume  a decent  tone  of  courteous  ease. 

You  have  them  then  to  humor  as  you  please. 
First  a dijjloma  must  belief  infuse. 

That  you  in  your  profession  take  the  lead  : 
You  then  at  once  those  easy  freedoms  use 
For  which  another  many  a year  must  plead  ; 
Learn  how  to  feel  with  nice  address 
'I’he  dainty  wrist  ; — and  how  to  ])ress. 

With  ardent  furtive  glance,  the  slendci 
waist. 

To  feel  how  tightly  it  is  lac’d. 

Student.  'I'here  is  some  sense  in  that  ! 

one  sees  the  how  and  why. 

Mephis.  Gray  is,  young  friend,  all  theory: 
And  green  of  life  the  golden  tree. 

Student.  I swear  it  seemeth  like  a dream 
to  me. 


37 


May  I some  future  time  repeat  my  visit, 

To  liear  on  what  your  wisdom  grounds  your 
views  ? 

Mephis.  Command  my  humble  service 
when  you  clioose. 

Student.  Ere  I retire,  one  boon  I must 
solicit : 

Here  is  my  album,  do  not.  Sir,  deny 
This  token  of  your  favor  ! 

Mephis.  Willingly! 

\_Hc  icn'tes  and  returns  the  book. 

Student.  (Reads.)  Eritis  sicut  Deus, 
scientes  ronum  et  .malum. 

\^He  reverently  closes  the  book  and  retires. 

Mephis.  Let  but  this  ancient  proverb  be 
your  rule. 

My  cousin  follow  still,  the  wily  snake, 

.\nd  with  your  likeness  to  the  gods,  poor  fool. 
Ere  long  be  sure  your  poor  sick  heart  will 
quake  1 

Faust.  (Enters.)  Whither  away? 

Mephis.  ’Tis  thine  our  course  to  steer. 
The  little  world,  and  then  the  great  we’ll  view. 


With  what  delight,  what  profit  too, 

Thou’lt  revel  through  thy  gay  career! 

Faust.  Desjiite  my  length  of  beard  I need 
'I’he  easy  manners  that  insure  success  ; 

I’h’  attempt  I fear  can  ne’er  succeed  ; 

'I'o  mingle  in  the  world  I want  address  ; 

I still  have  an  embarrass’d  air,  and  then 
I feel  myself  so  small  with  other  men. 

Mephis.  Time,  my  good  friend,  with  all 
that’s  needful  give  ; 

Be  only  self-possess’d,  and  thou  hast  learn’ d 
to  live. 

Faust.  But  how  are  we  to  start,  I pray  ? 
Steeds,  servants,  carriage,  M'here  are  they  ? 
Mephis.  We’ve  but  to  spread  this  mantle 
M'ide, 

’Twill  serve  whereon  through  air  to  ride, 

No  heavy  baggage  need  you  take, 

1 When  \ve  our  bold  excursion  make, 

I -V  little  gas,  which  I will  soon  prepare, 

' Lifts  us  from  earth  ; aloft  through  air, 

! Light  laden,  we  shall  swiftly  steer; — 

I wish  )ou  joy  of  your  new  life-career. 


UERBACH’S  CELLAR  in 

LEIPSIC. 

(A  drinking  party.) 

Frosch.  No  drinking?  Naught  a 
laugh  to  raise? 

None  of  your  gloomy  looks,  I pray  ! 
You,  who  so  bright  were  wont  to  blaze. 
Are  dull  as  wetted  straw  to-day. 
Brander.  ’Tis  all  your  fault;  your  part 
you  do  not  bear. 

No  beastliness,  no  folly. 

Frosch.  (Pours  a giass  of  wine  over  his 
head.)  There, 

You  have  them  both! 

Brander.  You  double  beast ! 

Frosch.  ’Tis  what  you  ask’d  me  for,  at 
least  I 

Siebel.  Whoever  quarrels,  turn  him  out ! 
With  open  throat  drink,  roar  and  shout. 

Hollo!  Hollo!  Ho! 

Altmayer.  Zounds,  fellow,  cease  your 
deaf’ning  cheers! 

Bring  cotton-wool ! He  splits  my  ears. 

Siebel.  ’Tis  when  the  roof  rings  back  the 
tone. 

Then  first  the  full  jiower  of  the  bass  is  known. 
Frosch.  Right!  out  with  him  who  takes 
offence  ! 

A tara  lara  la ! 

.\ltmayer.  a tara  lara  la! 

P'rosch.  Our  throats  are  tun’d.  Come, 
let’s  commence. 

(Sings. ) 

The  holv  Roman  empire  now. 

How  holds  it  still  together? 

Brander.  An  ugly  song  ! a song  political  ! 
A song  offensive!  Thank  God,  every  morn 
To  rule  the  Roman  empire,  that  you  were  not 
born  ! 

I bless  my  stars  at  least  that  mine  is  not 
Either  a kaiser’s  or  a chancellor’s  lot. 


Yet  ’mong  ourselves  should  one  still  lord  i! 
o’er  the  rest ; 

That  we  eledl  a pope  I now  suggest. 

Ye  know,  what  quality  ensures 
A man’s  success,  his  rise  secures. 

Frosch.  (Sings.) 

Bear,  lady  nightingale  above 
Ten  thousand  greetings  to  my  love. 
Siebel.  No  greetings  to  a sweetheart ! No 
love-songs  shall  there  be  ! 

Frosch.  Love-greetings  and  love-kisses! 
Thou  shalt  not  hinder  me! 

( Sings.) 

Undo  the  bolt!  in  stilly  night. 

Undo  the  bolt ! thy  love’s  awake  ! 

Shut  to  the  bolt!  with  morning  light — 
Siebel.  Ay,  sing  away,  sing  on,  her  praises 
sound  ; — the  snake ! 

My  turn  to  laugh  will  come  some  day. 

Me  hath  she  jilted  once,  you  the  same  trick 
she’ll  play. 

Some  gnome  her  lover  be  ! where  cross-roads 
meet, 

W'ith  her  to  play  the  fool ; or  old  he-goat, 
From  Blocksberg  coming  in  swift  gallop,  bleat 
A good  night  to  her,  from  his  hairy  throat  ! 

A proper  lad  of  genuine  flesh  and  blood 
Is  for  the  damsel  far  too  good  ; 

The  greeting  she  shall  have  from  me. 

To  smash  her  window-panes  will  be! 

Brander.  (Striking  on  the  tahie.) 

Silence  ! Attend  ! to  me  give  ear  ! 

Confess,  sirs,  I know  how  to  live; 
i Some  love-sick  folk  are  sitting  here! 

' Hence,  ’tis  but  fit,  their  hearts  to  cheer. 

That  I a good-night  strain  to  them  should  give. 
! Hark ! of  the  newest  fashion  is  my  song ! 
Strike  boldly  in  the  chorus,  clear  and  strong! 
( He  sings.) 

Once  in  a cellar  lived  a rat. 

He  feasted  there  on  butter. 

Until  his  paunch  became  as  fat 
As  that  of  Uodlor  Luther. 


39 


The  cook  laid  poison  for  the  guest, 

Then  was  his  lieart  with  pangs  oppress’d, 

As  if  his  frame  love  wasted. 

Chorus.  (S/iouting.)  As  if  his  frame 
love  wasted. 

Branuer.  He  ran  around,  he  ran  abroad. 
Of  every  puddle  drinking. 

The  house  with  rage  he  scratch’d  and  gnaw’d. 
In  vain, — he  fast  was  sinking; 

Full  many  an  anguish’d  bound  he  gave. 

Nothing  the  hapless  brute  could  save. 

As  if  his  frame  love  wasted. 

Chorus.  As  if  his  frame  love  wasted. 
Brander.  By  torture  driven,  in  open  day. 
The  kitchen  he  invaded. 

Convuls’d  upon  the  hearth  he  lay. 

With  anguish  sorely  jaded  ; 

The  poisoner  laugh’d,  Ha!  ha!  quoth  she. 

His  life  is  ebbing  fast,  I see. 

As  if  his  frame  love  wasted. 

Chorus.  As  if  his  frame  love  wasted. 
SiEBEL.  How  the  dull  boors  exulting  shout! 
Poison  for  the  poor  rats  to  strew 
A fine  exploit  it  is  no  doubt. 

Branuer.  They,  as  it  seems,  stand  well 
with  you ! 

Altmayer.  Old  bald-pate!  with  the  paunch 
profound ! 

'I'he  rat’s  mishap  hath  tam’d  his  nature; 

For  he  his  counterpart  hath  found 
Depidled  in  the  swollen  creature. 

Faust  ajid  Mephistopheles. 

Mephis.  I now  must  introduce  to  you 
Before  auglit  else,  this  jovial  crew, 

To  show  how  liglitly  life  may  glide  away; 

With  the  folk  here  each  day’s  a holiday. 

With  little  wit  and  much  content. 

Each  on  his  own  small  round  intent. 

Like  sportive  kitten  with  its  tail; 

While  no  sick  headache  they  bewail. 

And  while  their  host  will  credit  give. 

Joyous  and  free  from  care  they  live. 

Branuer.  They’re  off  a journey,  that  is 
clear, — 

They  look  !-o  strange ; they’ve  scarce  been  here 
An  hour. 

Frosch.  You’re  right!  Leipsic’s  the  place 
for  me ! 

’Tis  quite  a little  Paris ; people  there 
Acquire  a certain  easy  finish’d  air. 

vSiehel.  What  take  you  now  these  travellers 
to  be? 

Frosch.  Let  me  alone  ! O’er  a full  glass 
you’ll  .see, 

\s  easily  I’ll  worm  their  secret  out  | 


As  draw  an  infirnt’s  tooth.  I’ve  not  a doubt 
That  my  two  gentlemen  are  nobly  born. 

They  look  dissatisfied  and  full  of  scorn. 

Branuer.  They  are  but  mountebanks.  I’ll 
lay  a bet ! 

Altmayer.  Most  like. 

Frosch.  Mark  me.  I’ll  screw  it  from  them 
yet ! 

Mephis.  (7>  Faust.)  These  fellows  would 
not  scent  the  devil  out. 

E’en  though  he  had  them  by  the  very  throat  ! 

Faust.  Good-morrow,  gentlemen  ! 

SiEBEL.  Thanks  for  your  fair  salute. 

\_Aside,  glancing  at  Mephistopheles. 
How  ! goes  the  fellow  on  a halting  foot? 

Mephis.  Is  it  iiermitted  here  with  you  to  sit  ? 
Then  though  good  wine  is  not  forthcoming 
here. 

Good  company  at  least  our  hearts  will  cheer. 

Altmayer.  A dainty  gentleman,  no  doubt 
of  it. 

Frosch.  You’re  doubtless  recently  from 
Rilijiach  ? Pray, 

Did  you  with  Master  Hans  there  chance  to  sup? 

Mephis.  To-day  we  pass’d  him,  but  we  did 
not  stop ! 

\\’hen  last  we  met  him  he  had  much  to  say 
Touching  his  cousins,  and  to  each  he  sent 
P’ull  many  a greeting  and  kind  com])liment. 

[ Uith  an  inclination  towards  Frosch. 

Altmayer.  (^Aside  toYwo’S.cw.')  You  have  it 
there  ! 

SiEBEL.  Faith  ! he’s  a knowing  one  ! 

P'rosch.  Have  patience  ! I will  show  him 
up  anon  ! 

Mephis.  Unless  I err,  as  we  drew  near 
We  heard  some  practis’d  voices  pealing. 

A song  must  admirably  here 
Re-echo  from  this  \ aulted  ceiling! 

P’rosch.  That  you’re  an  amateur  one  plainly 
sees ! 

Mephis.  Oh  no,  though  strong  the  love,  I 
cannot  boast  much  skill. 

Altmayer.  Give  us  a song  ! 

Mephis.  As  many  as  you  will. 

SiEBEL.  But  be  it  a brand  new  one,  if  you 
please  ! 

Mephis.  But  recently  returned  from  Spain 
are  we. 

The  pleasant  land  of  wine  and  minstrelsy. 

(Sings.) 

A king  there  was  once  reigning. 

Who  had  a goodly  flea — 

Frosch.  Hark  ! did  you  rightly  catch  the 
words  ? a flea  ! 

I An  odd  sort  of  a guest  he  needs  must  be. 


40 


Mephis.  (Si//gs.) 

A king  there  was  once  reigning, 

Who  had  a goodlv  flea, 

H im  lov’d  he  without  feigning. 

As  his  own  son  were  he ! 

His  tailor  then  he  summon’d, 

The  tailor  to  him  goes  : 

Now  measure  me  the  youngster 
For  jerkin  and  for  hose  ! 

Brander.  Take  proper  heed,  the  tailor 
stridlly  charge. 

The  nicest  measurement  to  take. 

And  as  he  loves  his  head,  to  make 
The  hose  quite  smooth  and  not  too  large  ! 

Mephis.  In  satin  and  in  velvet. 

Behold  the  younker  dressed  ; 

Bedizen’d  o’er  with  ri’obons, 

A cross  upon  his  breast. 

Prime  minister  they  made  him. 

He  wore  a star  of  state  ! 

.And  all  his  poor  relations 
Were  courtiers,  rich  and  great. 

The  gentlemen  and  ladies 
At  court  were  sore  distress’d  ; 

The  queen  and  all  her  maidens 
Were  bitten  by  the  pest. 

And  yet  they  dared  not  scratch  them. 

Or  chase  the  fleas  away. 

If  we  are  bit,  we  catch  them. 

And  crack  without  delay. 

Chorus.  (Shouting.)  If  we  are  bit,  etc. 
Frosch.  Bravo  ! That’s  the  song  for  me.  I 
SiEBEL.  Such  be  the  fate  of  every  flea  ! 
Branuer.  With  clever  finger  catch  and  kill.  ' 
Altmayer.  Hurrah  for  wine  and  freedom 
still  ! I 

Mephis.  Were  but  your  wine  a trifle  bet- 
ter, friend,  ^ 

A glass  to  freedom  I would  gladly  drain. 

SiEBEL.  You’d  better  not  repeat  those  words  > 
again  ! 

Mephis.  I am  afraid  the  landlord  to  offend  ! 
Else  freely  would  I treat  each  worthy  guest 
From  our  own  cellar  to  the  very  best. 

SiEBEL.  Out  with  it  then  ! Your  doings 
I’ll  defend. 

Frosch.  Give  a good  glass,  and  straight 
we’ll  praise  you,  one  and  all. 

Only  let  not  your  samples  be  too  small  ■, 

For  if  my  judgment  you  desire,  I 

Certes,  an  ample  mouthful  I require. 

Alt.mayer.  (Aside.)  I guess,  they’re  from  ! 

the  Rhenish  land. 

Mephis.  Fetch  me  a gimlet  here  ! 

Brander.  Say,  what  therewith  to  bore? 
You  cannot  have  the  wine-casks  at  the  door.  i 


I Altmayer.  Our  landlord’s  tool-basket  be- 

I hind  doth  yonder  stand. 

Mephis.  ( Takes  the  gimlet.)  ( Th  Frosch.) 

Now  only  say  ! what  liquor  will  you  take? 

Frosch.  How  mean  you  that  ? have  you 

I of  every  sort  ? 

Mephis.  Each  may  his  own  seledtion 
make. 

Altmayer.  (71?  Frosch.)  Ha!  ha!  You 
lick  your  lips  already  at  the  thought. 

Frosch.  Good,  if  I haYe  my  choice,  the 
Rhenish  I propose ; 

For  still  the  fairest  gifts  the  fatherland  bestows. 

Mephis.  ( Boring  a hole  in  the  edge  of  the 
table  opposite  to  where  Frosch  is  sitting.) 

Get  me  a little  wax — and  make  some  stoppers 
— quick  ! 

Altmayer.  Why,  this  is  nothing  but  a 
juggler’s  trick  ! 

Mephis.  (To  Brander.)  And  you? 

Brander.  Chamiiagne’s  the  wine  for 
me ; 

Right  brisk  and  sparkling  let  it  be ! 

[Mephistopheles  bores ; one  of  the  party 
has  in  the  meantime  prepared  the  wax 
stoppers  and  stopped  the  holes. 

Brander.  What  foreign  is  one  always  can’t 
decline. 

What’s  good  is  often  scatter’d  far  apart. 

The  French  your  genuine  German  hates  with 
all  his  heart. 

Yet  has  a relish  for  their  wine. 

SiEBEL.  (As  Mephistopheles  approaches 
him.)  I like  not  acid  wine,  I must  allow. 

Give  me  a glass  of  genuine  sweet ! 

Mephis.  (Bores.)  ■ Tokay 

Shall,  if  you  wish  it,  flow  without  delay. 

.Altmayer.  Come  ! look  me  in  the  face  ! 
no  fooling  now  ! 

You  are  but  making  fun  of  us,  I trow. 

Mephis.  Ah  ! ah ! that  would  indeed  be 
making  free 

With  such  distinguish’d  guests.  Come,  no 
delay  ; 

VVdiat  liquor  can  I serve  you  with,  I jiray? 
Altmayer.  Only  be  quick,  it  matters  not 
to  me. 

\_After  the  holes  are  all  bored  and  stopped. 
Mephis.  ( With  strange  gestures.) 

Grapes  the  vine-stock  bears. 

Horns  the  buck-goat  wears  ! 

Wine  is  sap,  the  vine  is  wood, 

The  wooden  board  yields  wine  as  good. 
With  a deeper  glance  and  true 
'Fhe  mysteries  of  nature  view  ! 

Have  faith  and  here’s  a miracle  ! 

Your  stoppers  draw  and  drink  your  fill  ! 


41 


1 


i 


All.  (As  they  draw  the  stoppers,  and  the 
7C’ine  chosen  hy  each  runs  into  his  glass.) 
Oh  beauteous  spring,  whicli  flows  so  fair  ! 

Mephis.  Spill  not  a single  droj),  of  this 
beware  ! [ They  drink  repeatedly. 

All.  (Sing.)  Happy  as  cannibals  are  we, 
Or  as  five  hundred  swine. 

Mephis.  They’re  in  their  glory,  mark  their 
elevation  ! 

F.lust.  Let’s  hence,  nor  here  our  stay  pro- 
long. 

Mephis.  Attend,  of  brutishness  ere  long 
You’ll  see  a glorious  revelation. 

SiEP.EL.  (Drinks  carelessly;  the  ica'ne  is 
spilt  upon  the  ground,  and  turns  to  flame-. ) 
Help  ! fire  ! help  ! Hell  is  burning  ! 

Mephis.  ( Addressing  the  flames.)  Stop, 
Kind  element,  be  still,  I say  ! 

( To  the  company.) 

Of  purgatorial  fire  as  yet  ’tis  but  a drop. 

SiEBEL.  What  means  the  knave  ! For  this 
you’ll  dearly  pay  ! 

Us,  it  appears,  you  do  not  know. 

Frosch.  Such  tricks  a second  time  he’d 
better  show ! 

Altmayer.  Methinks  ’twere  well  we  pack’d 
him  quietly  away. 

SiEBEL.  What,  sir  ! with  us  your  hocus- 
pocus  play  ! 

Mephis.  Silence!  old  wine-cask! 

SiEBEL.  How!  add  insult  too  ! 

\hle  broomstick  ! 

Brander.  Hold  ! or  blows  shall  rain  on 
you  ! 

Al'imaver.  ( Drains  a stopper  out  of  the 
table ; fire  springs  out  against  him.) 

I burn  ! 1 burn  ! 

SiEBEL.  ’Tis  sorcery,  I vow  ! 

Strike  home  ! The  fellow  is  fair  game,  I trow  ! 

\Draw  knives  and  attack  Mephistopheles. 

Mephis.  ( With  solemn  gestures.) 

Visionary  scenes  appear  ! 


Words  delusive  cheat  the  ear ! 

Be  ye  there,  and  be  ye  here  ! 

[ They  stand  amazed  and  gaze  on  each  other. 

Altmayer.  Where  am  I ? What  a beau- 
teous land  ! 

Frosch.  Vineyards  ! unless  my  sight  de- 
ceives ? 

SiEBEL.  And  dust’ ring  grapes  too,  close  at 
hand  ! 

Brander.  And  underneath  the  spreading 
leaves. 

What  stems  there  be  ! What  grapes  I see  ! 

\^Hc  seizes  Siebel  hy  the  nose.  The  others  re- 
ciprocally do  the  same,  raising  their  knives. 

Mephis.  (As  above.)  Delusion,  from  their 
eyes  the  bandage  take  ! 

Note  how  the  devil  loves  a jest  to  break  ! 

'(He  disappears  with  Faust  ; the  fellows  draw 
back  from  one  another. 

Siebel.  What  was  it? 

Altmayer.  How? 

Frosch.  Was  that  your  nose? 

Brander.  (To  Siebel.)  .\nd  look,  my 
hand  doth  thine  enclose  ! 

Altmayer.  I felt  a shock,  it  went  through 
every  limb  ! 

A chair  ! Fm  fiiinting  ! All  things  swim  ! 

Frosch.  Say  what  has  happen’d,  what’s  it 
all  about  ? 

Siebel.  Where  is  the  fellow?  Could  I 
scent  him  out. 

His  body  from  his  soul  Fd  soon  divide  ! 

Alt.  With  my  own  eyes,  upon  a cask  astride. 

Forth  through  the  cellar-door  I saw  him  ride- — • 

Heavy  as  lead  my  feet  are  growing. 

[ Turning  to  the  table. 

Would  that  the  wine  again  were  flowing  ! 

Siebel.  ’Twas  all  delusion,  cheat  and  lie. 

Frosch.  ’Twas  wine  I drank,  most  ( ertainly. 

Brander.  What  of  the  grapes  too, — where 
are  they  ? 

Altmayer.  Who  now  will  miracles  gainsay  ? 


r 


i 


42 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 

FAUST.  FIRST  FAR  1'. 


MRPHISTOPHELES  REMUVlNli  THE  SPELL. 


Within  the  very  narrowest  round, 

Support  thyself  upon  the  simplest  fare, 

Live  like  a very  brute  the  brutes  among. 
Neither  esteem  it  robbery 
The  acre  thou  dost  reap,  thyself  to  dung — 
This  the  best  method,  credit  me, 

Again  at  eighty  to  grow  hale  and  young. 
Faust.  I am  not  used  to  it,  nor  can  myself 
degrade 

So  far  as  in  my  hand  to  take  the  spade. 

For  this  mean  life  my  spirit  soars  too  high. 
Mephis.  Then  must  we  to  the  witch  apply  ! 
Faust.  Will  none  but  this  old  beldame  do? 
Canst  not  thyself  the  potion  brew? 

Mephis.  pretty  play  our  leisure  to  be- 
guile ! 

A thousand  bridges  I could  build  meanwhile. 
Not  science  only  and  consummate  art. 
Patience  must  also  bear  her  part. 

A quiet  spirit  worketh  whole  years  long  ; 

Time  only  makes  the  subtle  ferment  strong. 
And  all  things  that  belong  thereto 
Are  wondrous  and  exceeding  rare  ! 
d'he  devil  taught  her,  it  is  true  ; 

But  yet  the  draught  the  devil  can’t  prepare. 

\^Percewi>ig  tlie  beasts. 
Look  yonder,  what  a dainty  pair  ! 

Here  is  the  maid  ! the  knave  is  there ! 

[ To  the  beasts. 

It  seems  your  dame  is  not  at  home  ? 

The  Monkeys.  Gone  to  carouse. 

Out  of  the  house. 

Through  the  chimney  and  away  ! 
Mephis.  How  long  is  it  her  wont  to  roam? 


Witches’  Kitchen. 

[A  large  caldron  hangs  over  the  fire  on  a low 
hearth ; various  figures  appear  in  the 
vapor  rising  from  it.  A female  Monkey 
sits  beside  the  caldron  to  skim  it,  and 
watch  that  it  does  not  boil  over.  The 
MALE  Monkey  with  the  young  ones  is 
seated  near,  warming  himself.  The  walls 
and  ceiling  are  adorned  7vith  the  strangest 
articles  of  witchfiinntnre. 

Faust,  Mephistopheles. 

Faust.  This  senseless,  juggling  witchcraft 
I detest ! 

Dost  promise  that  in  this  foul  nest 
Of  madness,  I shall  be  restor’d  ? 

Must  I seek  counsel  from  an  ancient  dame? 
.\nd  can  she,  by  these  rites  abhorr’d, 

'bake  thirty  winters  from  my  frame? 

^Voe’s  me,  if  thou  naught  better  canst  suggest! 
Hope  has  already  fled  my  breast. 

Has  neither  nature  nor  a noble  mind 
A balsam  yet  devis’d  of  any  kind  ? 

Mephis.  My  friend,  you  now  speak  sen- 
sibly. In  truth. 

Nature  a method  giveth  to  renew  thy  youth; 
But  in  another  book  the  lesson’s  writ ; — 

It  forms  a curious  chapter,  I admit. 

Faust.  I fain  would  know  it. 

Mephis.  Good  I A remedy 

Without  physician,  gold,  or  sorcery; 

Away  forthwith,  and  to  the  fields  repair, 

Begin  to  delve,  to  cultivate  the  ground. 

Thy  senses  and  thyself  confine 


43 


The  Monkeys.  While  we  can  warm  our 
j)aws  she’ll  stay. 

Mephis.  (To  Faust.)  What  think  you 
of  the  charming  creatures? 

Faust.  1 loathe  alike  their  form  and  features ! 
Mephis.  Nay,  such  discourse,  be  it  confess’d. 
Is  just  the  thing  that  pleases  me  the  best. 

To  the  Monkeys. 

Tell  me,  ye  whelps,  accursed  crew  ! 

What  stir  ye  in  the  broth  about  ? 

The  Monkeys.  Coarse  beggar’s  gruel  here 
we  stew. 

Mephis.  Of  customers  you’ll  have  a rout. 
The  he  Monkey.  (Approaching  and  fawn- 
ing on  Mephistopheles.) 

Quick  ! quick  ! throw  the  dice. 

Make  me  rich  in  a trice. 

Oh  give  me  the  prize  ! 

Alas,  for  myself! 

Had  I plenty  of  pelf, 

I then  should  be  wise. 

Mephis.  How  blest  the  ape  would  think 
himself,  if  he 

Could  only  put  into  the  lottery  ! 

[//;  the  meantime  the  young  Monkeys  have 
been  playing  tenth  a large  globe,  which  they 
roll forwards. 

The  he  Monkey.  The  world  behold  ! 
F’nceasingly  roll’d. 

It  riseth  and  falleth  ever;  • ' 

It  ringeth  like  glass  ! 

How  brittle,  alas  ! 

’Tis  hollow,  and  resteth  never. 

How  bright  the  sphere. 

Still  brighter  here ! 

Now  living  am  I ! 

Dear  son,  beware  ! 

Nor  venture  there  ! 
d'hou  too  must  die  ! 

It  is  of  clay; 

’Twill  crumble  away; 

There  fragments  lie. 

Mephis.  Of  what  use  is  the  sieve? 

The  HE  Monkey.  (Taking  it  down.').  The 
sieve  would  show 
If  thou  wert  a thief  or  no. 

[//c  runs  to  the  she  Monkey,  and  makes  her 
look  through  it. 

Look  through  the  sieve  ! 

Dost  know  him  the  thief. 

And  dar’st  thou  not  call  him  so? 
Mephis.  ( Approaching  the  fire.)  And  then 
this  pot  ? 

The  Monkeys.  The  half-witted  sot  ! 

He  knows  not  the  jjot ! 

He  knows  not  the  kettle  ! 


Mephis.  Unmannerly  beast ! 

Be  civil  at  least ! 

The  he  Monkey.  Take  the  whisk  and  sit 
down  in  the  settle  ! 

makes  Mephistopheles  sit  down. 

Faust.  (IVho  all  this  time  has  been  stand- 
ing before  a looking-glass,  now  approaching, 
and  now  retiring  from  it. ) W’hat  do  I see  ? 
What  form  whose  charms  transcend 
The  loveliness  of  earth,  is  mirror’d  here  I 
O Love,  to  waft  me  to  her  sphere. 

To  me  the  swiftest  of  thy  pinions  lend  ! 

Alas  ! if  I remain  not  rooted  to  this  place. 

If  to  approach  more  near  I’m  fondly  lur’d. 
Her  image  fades,  in  veiling  mist  obscur’d  ! — 
Model  of  beauty  both  In  form  and  face  ! 

Is’t  po.ssible?  Hath  woman  charms  so  rare? 
Is  this  recumbent  form,  supremely  fair. 

The  very  essence  of  all  heavenly  grace? 

Can  aught  so  exquisite  on  earth  be  found  ? 

Mephis.  The  six  days’  labor  of  a god,  my 
friend. 

Who  doth  himself  cry  bravo,  at  the  end. 

By  something  clever  doubtless  should  be 
crown’d. 

For  this  time  gaze  your  fill,  and  when  you 
please 

Just  such  a prize  for  you  I can  provide ; 

How  blest  is  he  to  whom  kind  fate  decrees. 

To  take  her  to  his  home,  a lovely  bride  1 

[Faust  continues  to  gaze  into  the  mit-ror. 
Mephistopheles  stretching  himself  on  the 
settle  and  playing  with  the  whisk,  continues 
to  speak. 

Here  sit  I,  like  a king  upon  his  throne; 

My  sceptre  this; — the  crown  I want  alone. 

The  Monkeys.  (IJ'ho  have  hitherto  been 
making  all  sorts  of  strange  gestures,  bring 
Mephistopheles  a crown,  with  loud  cries.) 
Oh,  be  so  good. 

With  sweat  and  with  blood 
The  crown  to  lime! 

[ They  handle  the  crown  awkwardly  and 
break  it  into  two  pieces,  with  which  they 
skip  about. 

’Twas  fate’s  decree  ! 

^^’e  speak  and  see  ! 

We  hear  and  rhyme. 

Faust.  (Before  the  mirror.)  Woe’s  me  ! 
well-nigh  di.straught  I feel  ! 

Mephis.  (Pointing  to  the  beasts.)  And 
even  my  own  head  almost  begins  to  reel. 

The  Monkeys.  If  good  luck  attend. 

If  fitly  things  blend. 

Our  jargon  with  thought 
And  with  reason  is  fraught  ! 


44 


Faust.  (As  above.)  A flame  is  kindled 
in  my  breast  ! 

Let  us  begone  ! nor  linger  here  ! 

Mepuis.  (In  the  same  position.)  It  now  at 
least  must  be  confess’d, 

That  jjoets  sometimes  are  sincere. 

[ The  caldron  zvhich  the  she  Monkey  has  ne- 
glefled  begins  to  boil  over;  a great  flame 
arises,  which  streams  up  the  chimney.  The 
W’lTCH  comes  down  the  chimney  ivith  hor- 
rible cries. 

The  Witch.  Ough  ! ough  ! ough  ! ough  ! 

Accursed  brute  ! accursed  sow  ! 

Tliou  dost  negledt  the  ])ot,  for  shame  ! 

Accursed  brute  to  scorch  the  dame  ! 

[Perceiving  Faus'p  and  Mephistopheles. 


\Vhom  have  we  here? 

Who’s  sneaking  here? 

Whence  are  ye  come? 

With  what  desire? 

'I'he  [ilague  of  fire 

Your  bones  consume! 

[She  dips  the  shimming-ladle  into  the  caldron 
and  throws  flames  at  Faust,  Mephisto- 
pheles and  the  Monkeys.  The  Monkeys 
whiniper. 

Mephis.  ( Tivirling  the  johisk  which  he 
holds  in  his  hand,  and  striking  among  the 
glasses  and  pots. ) 

Dash  I Smash  ! 

There  lies  the  glass  ! 


45 


There  lies  the  slime  ! 

’Tis  but  a jest ; 

1 but  keep  time, 

'I'hou  hellisli  |)cst, 

'I'o  tlhne  own  chime! 

[ Whi/e  the  \\hTcn  steps  back  in  rage  and 
astonishment. 

Dost  know  me?  Skeleton  ! Vile  scarecrow, 
thou  ! 

I'hy  lord  and  master  dost  thou  know? 

^Vhat  holds  me,  tliat  I deal  not  now 
Thee  and  thine  apes  a stunning  blow? 

No  more  respedt  to  my  red  vest  dost  pay? 
Does  my  cock’s  feather  no  allegiance  claim? 
Have  I my  visage  mask’d  to-day? 

Must  I be  forc’d  myself  to  name? 

The  Witch.  Master,  forgive  this  rude 
salute  1 

But  I perceive  no  cloven  foot. 

•\nd  your  two  ravens,  where  are  they? 

Mephis.  This  once  I must  admit  your  plea — 
For  truly  I must  own  that  we 
Each  other  have  not  seen  for  many  a day. 

The  culture,  too,  that  shapes  the  world,  at  last 
Hath  e’en  the  devil  in  its  sphere  embrac’d  ; 
The  northern  phantom  from  the  scene  hath 
pass’d. 

Tail,  talons,  horns,  are  nowhere  to  be  traced  ! 
.*\s  for  the  foot,  with  which  I can’t  dispense, 
’Twould  injure  me  in  company,  and  hence, 
Tike  many  a youthful  cavalier. 

False  calves  I now  have  worn  for  many  a year. 
'I’he  Witch.  (Dancing.)  I am  beside  my- 
self with  joy, 

I’o  see  once  more  the  gallant  Satan  here ! 
Mephis.  Woman,  no  more  that  name  em- 
ploy ! 

The  Witch.  Bukwhy?  what  mischief  hath 
it  done? 

Mephis.  To  fable  it  too  long  hath  ajiper- 
tain’d ; 

But  people  from  the  change  have  nothing  won. 
Rid  of  the  evil  one,  the  evil  has  remain’d. 
Lord  Baron  call  thou  me,  so  is  the  matter  good  ; 
Of  other  cavaliers  the  mien  I wear. 

Dost  make  no  question  of  my  gentle  blood? 
See  here,  this  is  the  scutcheon  that  I bear ! 

[//c  makes  an  unseemly  gesture. 
The  Witch.  (Laughing  immoderately.) 
Ha!  ha!  Just  like  yourself ! You  are,  I ween, 
d'he  same  mad  wag  that  you  have  ever  been  ! 
Mephis.  (To  Faust.)  My  friend,  learn 
this  to  understand,  I ])ray  ! 

To  deal  with  witches  this  is  still  the  way. 

'I'he  Witch.  Now  tell  me,  gentlemen, 
what  yon  desire  ? 


Mephis.  Of  your  known  juice  a goblet  we 
require. 

But  for  the  very  oldest  let  me  ask ; 

Double  its  strength  with  years  doth  grow. 

The  Witch.  Most  willingly ! And  here 
I have  a flask, 

From  which  Fve  sipp’d  myself  ere  now; 
What’s  more,  it  doth  no  longer  stink; 

'I'o  you  a glass  I joyfully  will  give.  \_Aside. 
If  unprepar’d,  however,  this  man  drink. 

He  hath  not,  as  you  know,  an  hour  to  live. 
Mephis.  He’s  my  good  friend,  with  whom 
’twill  prosper  well ; 

I grudge  him  not  the  choicest  of  thy  store. 
Now  draw  thy  circle,  speak  thy  spell. 

And  straight  a bumper  for  him  pour ! 

[77/c  Witch,  with  extraordinary  gestures, 
describes  a circle,  and  places  strange  things 
within  it.  The  glasses  meanwhile  begin 
to  ring,  the  caldron  to  sound,  and  to  make 
music.  Lastly,  she  brings  a great  book) 
places  the  Monkevs  in  the  circle  to  ser7<e 
her  as  a desk,  and  to  hold  the  torches.  She 
beckons  Faust  to  approach. 

Faust.  (7h  Mephistophei.es.)  Tell  me, 
to  what  doth  all  this  tend? 

Where  will  these  frantic  gestures  end? 

This  loathsome  cheat,  this  senseless  stuff 
I’ve  known  and  hated  long  enough. 

Mephis.  Mere  mummery,  a laugh  to  raise  ! 
Pray  don’t  be  so  fastidious!  She 
But  as  a leech,  her  hocus-pocus  plays, 

'Fhat  well  with  you  her  potion  may  agree. 

\^He  cotnpels  Faust  to  enter  the  circle. 
( The  Witch,  with  great  emphasis,  begins  to 
declaim  from  the  book.) 

'Phis  must  thou  ken  : 

Of  one  make  ten. 

Pass  two,  and  then 
Make  .square  the  three, 

So  rich  thou’ It  be. 

Drop  out  the  four  ! 

From  five  and  six. 

Thus  says  the  witch. 

Make  seven  and  eight. 

So  all  is  straight ! 

And  nine  is  one. 

And  ten  is  none, 

'Phis  is  the  witch’s  one-time-one! 
Faust.  'Phe  hag  doth  as  in  fever  rave. 
Mephis.  'Po  these  will  follow  many  a stave. 
I know  it  well,  so  rings  the  book  throughout; 
Much  time  I’ve  lost  in  puzzling  o’er  its 
pages, 

I'or  downright  ]\aradox,  no  doubt, 

mystery  remains  alike  to  fools  and  sages. 


46 


Ancient  the  art  and  modern  too,  my  friend. 
’Tis  still  the  fashion  as  it  used  to  be, 

Error  instead  of  truth  abroad  to  send 
By  means  of  three  and  one,  and  one  and  three. 
’'Pis  ever  taught  and  babbled  in  the  schools. 
Who’d  take  the  trouble  to  dispute  with  fools? 
When  words  men  hear,  in  sooth,  they  usually 
believe. 

That  there  must  needs  therein  be  something 
to  conceive. 

The  Witch.  ( Continues.) 

The  lofty  power 
Of  wisdom’s  dower. 

From  all  the  world  conceal’d  ! 

Who  thinketh  not. 

To  him  I wot. 

Unsought  it  is  reveal’d. 

Faust.  What  nonsense  doth  the  hag  pro- 
pound ? 

My  brain  it  doth  well-nigh  confound. 

A hundred  thousand  fools  or  more, 

Methinks  I hear  in  chorus  roar 

Mephis.  Incomparable  Sibyl  cease,  I pray  ! 
Hand  us  thy  liquor  without  more  delay. 

And  to  the  very  brim  the  goblet  crown  ! 

My  friend  he  is,  and  need  not  be  afraid ; 


Besides,  he  is  a man  of  many  a grade. 

Who  hath  drunk  deep  already. 

[77/1?  Witch,  with  many  ceremonies,  pours 
the  liquor  i/ito  a cup ; as  Faus  t lijts  it  to 
his  mouth,  a light  flame  arises. 

Mephis.  Gulp  it  down  ! 

No  hesitation  ! It  will  jirove 
A cordial,  and  your  heart  inspire! 

What ! with  the  devil  hand  and  glove. 

And  yet  shrink  back  afraid  of  fire? 

[ The  W ITCH  dissolves  the  circle.  Faust  steps 
out. 

Mephis.  Now  forth  at  once  ! thou  dar’st 
not  rest. 

Witch.  And  much,  sir,  may  the  liquor 
profit  you  ! 

Mephis.  (7h  the  Witch.)  And  if  to 
pleasure  thee  I aught  can  do. 

Pray  on  Walpurgis  mention  thy  recpiest. 

Witch.  Here  is  a song,  sung  o’er  some- 
times, you’ll  see, 

d'hat  ’twill  a singular  effedl  produce. 

Mephis.  (7}/ Faust.)  Come,  quick,  and 
let  thyself  be  led  by  me ; 

Thou  must  perspire,  in  order  that  the  juice 
Thy  frame  may  penetrate  through  every  part. 


47 


Thy  noble  idleness  I’ll  teach  thee  then  to  prize, 
And  soon  with  ecstasy  thou’ It  recognize 
How  Cupid  stirs  and  gambols  in  thy  heart. 
Faust.  Let  me  but  gaze  one  moment  in 
the  glass ! 

Too  lovely  was  that  female  form ! 

Mephis.  Nay!  nay! 

A model  which  all  women  shall  surpass, 

In  flesh  and  blood  ere  long  thou  shalt  survey. 

S^Aside. 

h?,  works  the  draught,  thou  presently  shalt  greet 
A Helen  in  each  woman  thou  dost  meet. 


A Street. 

Faust.  (Margaret  passing  /nc) 
Faust.  Fair  lady,  may  I thus  make  free 
To  offer  you  my  arm  and  company? 

Margaret.  I am  no  lady,  am  not  fair. 
Can  without  escort  home  repair. 

[A//C  disengages  herself  and  exit. 
Faust.  By  heaven ! This  girl  is  fair  in- 
deed ! 

No  form  like  hers  can  I recall. 

Virtue  she  hath,  and  modest  heed. 

Is  piquant  too,  and  sharp  withal. 


' Her  cheek’s  soft  light,  her  rosy  lips, 

I No  length  of  time  will  e’er  eclipse! 

I Her  downward  glance  in  passing  by, 
j Deep  in  my  heart  is  stamjj’d  for  aye; 

Flow  curt  and  sharp  her  answer  too ! 

My  ravish’d  heart  to  rapture  grew ! 

[ M EPH  iS'i'OPH  eles  enters. 
Faust.  This  girl  must  win  for  me  ! Dost 
hear? 

Mephis.  Which? 

I Faust.  She  who  but  now  pass’d. 

Mephis.  What!  She? 

She  from  confession  cometh  here. 

From  every  sin  absolv’d  and  free; 

I crept  near  the  confessor’s  chair. 

All  innocence  her  virgin  soul. 

For  next  to  nothing  went  she  there; 

O’er  such  as  she  I’ve  no  control ! 

Faust.  She’s  past  fourteen. 

Mephis.  You  really  talk 

Like  any  gay  Lothario, 

Who  every  floweret  from  its  stalk 

Would  pluck,  and  deems  nor  grace  nor  truth 

Secure  against  his  arts,  forsooth  ! 

This  ne’ertheless  won’t  always  do. 

Faust.  Sir  Moralizer,  prithee  pause; 

Nor  jilague  me  with  your  tiresome  laws! 

To  cut  the  matter  short,  my  friend, 

She  must  this  very  night  be  mine, — 

And  if  to  help  me  you  decline. 

Midnight  shall  see  our  compadl  end. 

Mephis.  What  may  occur  just  bear  in 
mind ! 

A fortnight’s  space,  at  least,  I need, 

A fit  occasion  but  to  find. 

Faust.  With  but  seven  hours  I could  suc- 
ceed ; 

Nor  should  I want  the  devil’s  wile. 

So  young  a creature  to  beguile. 

Mephis.  Like  any  Frenchman  now  you 
speak. 

But  do  not  fret,  I pray;  why  seek 
To  hurry  to  enjoyment  straight? 

The  ]jleasure  is  not  half  so  great 
As  when  at  first,  around,  above. 

With  all  the  fooleries  of  love. 

The  puppet  you  can  knead  and  mould 
As  in  Italian  story  oft  is  told. 

Faust.  No  such  incentives  do  I need. 
Mephis.  But  now,  without  offence  or  jest ! 
You  cannot  quickly,  I protest, 

' In  winning  this  sweet  child  succeed. 

By  storm  we  cannot  take  the  fort. 

To  stratagem  we  must  resort. 

Faust.  CondudI  me  to  her  place  of  rest? 
Some  token  of  the  angel  bring ! 


48 


ARTIST  ; FRANZ  SIMM. 

FAUST.  FIRST  PART. 


FAUST  AND  MAKGAHFT  l.F  AVI  NG  CHURCH 


A kerchief  from  her  snowy  breast, 

A garter  bring  me, — anything  ! 

Mephis.  That  I my  anxious  zeal  may  prove, 
Your  pangs  to  sooth  and  aid  your  love, 

A single  moment  will  we  not  delay. 

Will  lead  you  to  her  room  this  very  day. 
Faust.  And  shall  I see  her? — Have  her? 
Mephis.  No! 

She  to  a neighbor’s  house  will  go; 

But  in  her  atmosphere  alone. 

The  tedious  hours  meanwhile  you  may  employ. 
In  blissful  dreams  of  future  joy. 

Faust.  Can  we  go  now? 

Mephis.  ’Tis  yet  too  soon. 

Faust.  Some  present  for  my  love  procure! 

\^Exit. 

Mephis.  Presents  so  soon  ! ’tis  well  ! suc- 
cess is  sure  ! 

I know  full  many  a secret  store 
Of  treasure,  buried  long  before, 

I must  a little  look  them  o’er.  \^Exit. 


Evening.  A small  and  neat  room. 

Margaret.  (Braiding  and  binding  up  her 
hair.)  I would  give  something  now  to 
know. 

Who  yonder  gentleman  could  be  ! 


I He  had  a gallant  air,  I trow, 

I And  doubtless  was  of  high  degree ; 

That  written  on  his  brow  was  seen — • 

Nor  else  would  he  so  bold  have  been.  \^Exit. 
Mephis.  Comein!  treadsoftly!  be  discreet! 
P'aust.  ( After  a pause.)  Begone  and  leave 
me,  I entreat  ! 

Mephis.  (Looking  roimd.)  Not  every 
maiden  is  so  neat.  \_Exit. 

Faust.  (^Gazing  round.)  Welcome  sweet 
twilight  gloom  which  reigns. 

Through  this  dim  place  of  hallow’d  rest ! 

Fond  yearning  love,  inspire  my  breast. 
Feeding  on  hope’s  sweet  dew'  thy  blissful  pains ! 
What  stillness  here  environs  me  ! 

Content  and  order  brood  around. 

What  fulness  in  this  poverty  ! 

In  this  small  cell  what  bliss  profound  ! 

\He  throws  himself  on  the  leather  arm-chair 
beside  the  bed. 

Receive  me  thou,  who  hast  in  thine  embrace. 
Welcom’d  in  joy  and  grief  the  ages  flown  ! 
How  oft  the  children  of  a bygone  race 
Have  cluster’d  round  this  patriarchal  throne ! 
Haply  she,  also,  whom  I hold  so  dear. 

For  Christmas  gift,  with  grateful  joy  possess’d, 
Hath  with  the  full  round  cheek  of  childhood, 
here. 

Her  grandsire’s  wither’d  hand  devoutly  press’d. 
Maiden  ! I feel  thy  spirit  haunt  the  place. 
Breathing  of  order  and  abounding  grace. 

As  with  a mother’s  voice  it  prompteth  thee, 
The  pure  white  cover  o’er  the  board  to  sjiread. 
To  strew  the  crisping  sand  beneath  thy  tread. 
Dear  hand  ! so  godlike  in  its  ministry  ! 

The  hut  becomes  a paradise  through  thee  ! 
And  here — \He  raises  the  bed-curtain. 

How  thrills  my  pulse  with  strange  delight ! 
Here  could  I linger  hours  untold ; 

Thou,  Nature,  didst  in  vision  bright. 

The  embryo  angel  here  unfold. 

Here  lay  the  child,  her  bosom  warm 
With  life  ; while  steeped  in  slumber’s  dew. 

To  perfedt  grace  her  godlike  form 
With  pure  and  hallow’d  weavings  grew  ! 

And  thou  ! ah  here  what  seekest  thou? 

How  quails  mine  inmost  being  now  ! 

Wliat  wouldst  thou  here?  what  makes  thy  heart 
so  sore  ? 

Unhappy  Faust  ! I know  thee  now  no  more. 

Do  1 a magic  atmosphere  inhale? 

Erewhile,  my  passion  would  not  brook  delay! 
j Now  in  a pure  love-dream  I melt  away. 

I Are  wc  the  sport  of  every  passing  gale  ? 


49 


Should  she  return  and  enter  now, 

How  wouldst  thou  rue  thy  guilty  flame  ! 

Proud  vaunter — thou  wouldst  hide  thy  brow, — 
And  at  her  feet  sink  down  with  shame. 

Mephis.  Quick  ! quick  ! below  I see  her 
there. 

Faust.  Away  ! I will  return  no  more  ! 
Mephis.  Here  is  a casket,  with  a store 
Of  jewels,  which  I got  elsewhere. 

Just  lay  it  in  the  press ; make  haste  ! 

I swear  to  you,  ’twill  turn  her  brain  ; 

Therein  some  trifles  I have  plac’d. 

Wherewith  another  to  obtain. 

But  child  is  child,  and  play  is  play. 

Faust.  I know  not — shall  I ? 

Mephis.  Do  you  ask  ? 

Perchance  you  would  retain  the  treasure? 

If  such  your  wish,  why  then,  I say. 

Henceforth  absolve  me  from  my  task. 

Nor  longer  waste  your  hours  of  leisure. 

I trust  you’re  not  by  avarice  led  ! 

I rub  my  hands,  I scratch  my  head, — 

[//p  places  the  casket  in  the  press  and  closes 
the  lock. 

Now  quick  ! Away  ! 

d'hat  soon  the  sweet  young  creature  may 

The  wish  and  purpose  of  your  heart  obey ; 

Vet  stand  you  there 

As  would  you  to  the  ledfure-room  repair. 

As  if  before  you  stood. 

Array’d  in  flesh  and  blood, 

Plivsics  and  metaphysics  weird  and  gray! — 
Away  ! 

Margaret.  ( With  a lamp.)  It  is  so  close, 
so  sultry  now,  [A//p  opens  the  window. 
Yet  out  of  doors  ’tis  not  so  warm. 

I feel  so  strange,  I know  not  how — 

I wish  my  motlier  would  come  home, 

'I'hrough  me  there  runs  a shuddering — 

I’m  but  a foolish  timid  thing  ! 

[ While  tin  dressing  herself  she  begins  to  sing. 
There  was  a king  in  Thule, 
d'rue  even  to  the  grave  ; 

To  whom  his  dying  mistress 
A golden  beaker  gave. 

.\t  every  feast  he  drain’d  it. 

Naught  was  to  him  so  dear, 


And  often  as  he  drain’d  it. 

Gush’d  from  his  eyes  the  tear. 

I 

When  death  he  felt  approaching. 

His  cities  o’er  he  told  ; 

And  grudg’d  his  heir  no  treasure 
Except  his  cup  of  gold. 

Girt  round  with  knightly  vassals 
At  a royal  feast  sat  he. 

In  yon  proud  hall  ancestral. 

In  his  castle  o’er  the  sea. 

Up  stood  the  jovial  monarch. 

And  quaff’d  his  last  life’s  glow. 

Then  hurl’d  the  hallow’d  goblet 
Into  the  flood  below. 

He  saw  it  splashing,  drinking, 
j And  plunging  in  the  sea  j 

1 His  eyes  meanwhile  were  sinking. 

And  never  again  drank  he. 

[She  opens  the  press  to  put  away  her  clothes, 
and  perceives  the  casket. 

\ How  comes  this  lovely  casket  here?  The  press 
I lock’d,  of  that  I’m  confident. 

’Tis  very  wonderful  ! What’s  in  it  I can’t 
guess ; 

Perhaps  ’twas  brought  by  some  one  in  distress. 
And  left  in  pledge  for  loan  my  mother  lent. 
Here  by  a ribbon  hangs  a little  key! 

I have  a mind  to  open  it  and  see  ! 

Heavens  ! only  look  ! what  have  we  here  ! 

In  all  my  days  ne’er  saw  I such  a sight ! 
Jewels ! which  any  noble  dame  might  wear. 
For  some  high  pageant  richly  dight ! 

How  would  the  necklace  look  on  me  ! 
d'hese  splendid  gems,  whose  may  they  be  ? 

[A//P  puts  them  on  and  steps  before  the  glass. 
W'ere  but  the  ear-rings  only  mine  ! 

Thus  one  has  quite  another  air. 

What  boots  it  to  be  young  and  fair? 

It  doubtless  may  be  very  fine ; 

But  then,  alas,  none  cares  for  you. 

And  praise  sounds  half  like  pity  too. 

Gold  all  doth  lure. 

Gold  doth  secure 

All  things.  Alas,  we  poor  ! 


5° 


Promenade. 

Faust  walking  thoughtfully  up  and  down. 

To  him  Mephistopheles. 

Mephis.  By  love  despis’d  ! By  hell’s  fierce 
fires  I curse, 

Would  I knew  aught  to  make  my  imprecation 
worse  ! 

Faust.  What  aileth  thee  ? what  chafes  thee 
now  so  sore  ? 

A face  like  that  I never  saw  before  ! 

Mephis.  Fd  yield  me  to  the  devil  in- 
stantly, 

Did  it  not  happen  that  myself  am  he  ! 

Faust.  There  must  be  some  disorder  in 
thy  wit ! 

To  rave  thus  like  a madman,  is  it  fit? 

Mephis.  Just  think  ! The  gems  for  Gretchen 
brought, 

Them  hath  a priest  now  made  his  own  ! — 

A glimpse  of  them  the  mother  caught. 

And  ’gan  with  secret. fear  to  groan. 

The  woman’s  scent  is  keen  enough  ; 

Doth  ever  in  the  prayer-book  snuff ; 

Smells  every  article  to  ascertain 
Whether  the  thing  is  holy  or  profane. 

And  scented  in  the  jewels  rare. 

That  there  was  not  much  blessing  there. 

“ My  child,”  she  cries,  “ill-gotten  good 
Ensnares  the  soul,  consumes  the  blood  ; 

With  them  we’ll  deck  our  Lady’s  shrine, 

She’ll  cheer  our  souls  with  bread  divine  !” 

At  this  poor  Gretchen  ’gan  to  pout  ; 

’Tis  a gift-horse,  at  least,  she  thought. 

And  sure,  he  godless  cannot  be. 

Who  brought  them  here  so  cleverly. 

Straight  for  a priest  the  mother  sent. 

Who,  when  he  understood  the  jest, 

Witli  what  he  saw  was  well  content. 

“ This  shows  a pious  mind  !”  Quoth  he  : 
“Self-conquest  is  true  vidlory. 

The  Church  hath  a good  stomach  ; she,  with 
zest, 

Hath  lands  and  kingdoms  swallow’d  down. 
And  never  yet  a surfeit  known. 

The  Church  alone,  be  it  confess’d. 

Daughters,  can  ill-got  wealth  digest.” 

Faust.  It  is  a general  custom,  too, 
Pradlised  alike  by  king  and  jew. 

Mephis.  With  that,  clasp,  chain  and  ring 
he  swept 

As  they  were  mushrooms ; and  the  casket. 
Without  one  word  of  thanks,  he  kept. 

As  if  of  nuts  it  were  a basket. 

Promis’d  reward  in  heaven,  then  forth  he  hied  ; 
And  greatly  they  were  edified. 


Faust.  And  Gretchen  ! 

Mephis.  In  unquiet  mood 

Knows  neither  what  she  would  or  should  ; 

The  trinkets  night  and  day  thinks  o’er. 

On  him  who  brought  them,  dwells  still  more. 
Faust.  The  darling’s  sorrow  grieves  me, 
bring 

Another  set  without  delay  ! 

The  first,  methinks,  was  no  great  thing. 

Mephis.  All’s  to  my  gentleman  child’splay  ! 
Faust.  Plan  all  things  to  achieve  my  end  ! 
Engage  the  attention  of  her  friend  ! 

No  milk-and-water  devil  be. 

And  bring  fresh  jewels  instantly  ! 

Mephis.  Ay,  sir  ! Most  gladly  I’ll  obey. 

[Faust  exit. 

Mephis.  Your  doting  love-sick  fool,  with 
ease. 

Merely  his  lady-love  to  please. 

Sun,  moon  and  stars  in  sport  would  puff 
away.  \^Txit. 


The  Neighbor’s  House. 

Martha.  {Alone.)  God  pardon  my  dear 
husband,  he 

Doth  not  in  truth  a6l  well  by  me  ! 

Forth  in  the  world  abroad  to  roam, 

And  leave  me  on  the  straw  at  home. 

And  yet  his  will  I ne’er  did  thwart, 

God  knows,  I lov’d  him  from  my  heart  ! 

\^She  weeps. 

Perchance  he’s  dead  ! — oh  wretched  state  ! — 
Had  I but  a certificate  ! 

[Margaret  comes. 
Margaret.  Dame  Martha  ! 

Martha.  Gretchen  ! 

Margaret.  Only  think  ! 

My  knees  beneath  me  well-nigh  sink  ! 

Within  my  press  I’ve  found  to-day. 

Another  case,  of  ebony. 

.\nd  things — magnificent  they  are. 

More  costly  than  the  first,  by  far. 

Martha.  You  must  not  name  it  to  your 
mother  ! 

It  would  to  shrift,  just  like  the  other. 

Margaret.  Nay  look  at  them  ! now  only 
see  ! 

Martha.  ( Dresses  her  up.)  Thou  happy 
creature  ! 

Margaret.  Woe  is  me  ! 

Them  in  the  street  I cannot  wear. 

Or  in  the  church,  or  anywhere. 

Martha.  Come  often  over  here  to  me, 
The  gems  put  on  quite  privately ; 

And  then  before  the  mirror  walk  an  hour  or  so, 

51 


UNIVERSITY  Of 
ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 


Thus  we  shall  have  our  pleasure  too. 

'I’hen  suitable  occasions  we  must  seize, 

-\s  at  a feast,  to  show  them  by  degrees : 

,\  chain  at  first,  then  ear-drops, — and  your 
mother 

Won’t  see  them,  or  we’ll  coin  some  tale  or 
other. 

Margaret.  But  who,  I wonder,  could  the 
caskets  bring? 

I fear  there’s  something  wrong  about  the 
thing  ! \^A  knock. 

Good  heavens  ! can  that  my  mother  be  ? 

Martha.  ( Peering  through  the  blind.)  ’Tis 
a strange  gentleman  I see. 

Come  in.  [Mephistopheles  enters. 

Mephis.  I’ve  ventured  to  intrude  to-day. 
Ladies,  excuse  the  liberty,  I pray. 

\^He  steps  hack  respcpy^ully  before  Margaret. 
After  dame  Martha  Schwerdtlein  I inquire  ! 

Martha.  ’Tis  1.  Pray  what  have  you  to 
say  to  me  ? 

Mephis.  (Aside  to  her.)  I know  you  now, 
— and  therefore  will  retire; 

At  present  you’ve  distinguish’d  company. 
Pardon  the  freedom.  Madam,  with  your  leave, 
I will  make  free  to  call  again  at  eve. 

Martha.  (Aloud.)  Why,  child,  of  all 
strange  notions,  he 
For  some  grand  lady  taketh  thee  ! 

Margaret.  I am,  in  truth,  of  humble 
blood — 

The  gentleman  is  far  too  good — 

Nor  gems  nor  trinkets  are  my  own. 

Mephis.  Oh,  ’tis  not  the  mere  ornaments 
alone  ; 

Her  glance  and  mien  far  more  betray. 

Rejoic’d  I am  that  I may  stay. 

^Iartha.  Your  business.  Sir?  I long  to 
know — 

Mephis.  Would  I could  happier  tidings 
show ! 

I trust  mine  errand*you’ll  not  let  me  rue; 
Your  husband’s  dead,  and  greeteth  you. 

Martha.  Is  dead  ? True  heart  ! Oh  mis- 
ery ! 

My  husband  dead  ! Oh,  I shall  die  ! 

Margaret.  Alas!  good  Martha!  don’t 
despair  ! 

Mephis.  Now  listen  to  the  sad  affair  ! 

Margaret.  I for  this  cause  should  fear  to 
love. 

The  loss  my  certain  death  would  prove. 

Mephis.  Joy  still  must  sorrow,  sorrow  joy 
attend. 

Martha.  Proceed,  and  tell  the  story  of 
his  end  ! 


Mephis.  At  Padua,  in  St.  Anthony’s, 

In  holy  ground  his  body  lies  ; 

Quiet  and  cool  his  place  of  rest, 

With  pious  ceremonials  blest. 

Martha.  And  had  you  naught  besides  to 
bring  ? 

Mephis.  Oh  yes  ! one  grave  and  solemn 
prayer  ; 

Let  them  for  him  three  hundred  masses  sing  ! 
But  in  my  pockets,  I have  nothing  there. 
Martha.  No  trinket  ! no  love-token  did 
he  send  ! 

What  every  journeyman  safe  in  his  pouch  will 
hoard 

There  for  remembrance  fondly  stor’d. 

And  rather  hungers,  rather  begs  than  spend  ! 

Mephis.  Madam,  in  truth,  it  grieves  me  sore. 
But  he  his  gold  not  lavishly  hath  spent. 

His  failings  too  he  deeply  did  repent. 

Ay  ! and  his  evil  plight  bewail’d  still  more. 
Margaret.  Alas  ! That  men  should  thus 
be  doom’d  to  woe  ! 

I for  his  soul  will  many  a requiem  pray. 

Mephis.  A husband  you  deserve  this  very  day, 
A child  so  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Margaret.  Ah  no. 

That  time  hath  not  yet  come  for  me. 

Mephis.  If  not  a spouse,  a gallant  let  it  be. 
Among  heaven’s  choicest  gifts  I place 
So  sweet  a darling  to  embrace. 

Margaret.  Our  land  doth  no  such  usage 
know. 

Mephis.  Usage  or  not,  it  happens  so. 
Martha.  Go  on,  I pray  ! 

Mephis.  I stood  by  his  bedside. 

Something  less  foul  it  was  than  dung; 

’Twas  straw  half  rotten;  yet,  he  as  a Christian 
died. 

And  sorely  hath  remorse  his  conscience  wrung. 
“ Wretch  that  I was,”  quoth  he,  with  parting 
breath, 

“So  to  forsake  my  business  and  my  wife  ! 

Ah  ! the  remembrance  is  my  death. 

Could  I but  have  her  pardon  in  this  life!” — 
Martha.  ( Weeping.)  Dear  soul ! I’ve 
long  forgiven  him,  indeed! 

Mephis.  “Though  she,  God  knows,  was 
more  to  blame  than  I.” 

Martha.  What,  on  the  brink  of  death 
assert  a lie ! 

Mephis.  If  I am  skill’d  the  countenance 
to  read. 

He  doubtless  fabled  as  he  parted  hence. — 

“ No  time  had  I to  gape,  or  take  my  ease,”  he 
said, 

“ First  to  get  children,  and  then  get  them  bread ; 


52 


And  bread,  too,  in  the  very  widest  sense; 

Nor  could  I eat  in  peace  even  my  proper 
share.  ” 

Martha.  What,  all  my  truth,  my  love  for- 
gotten quite? 

My  weary  drudgery  by  day  and  night  ! 

Mephis.  Not  so ! He  thought  of  you  with 
tender  care. 

Quoth  he:  ‘‘Heaven  knows  how  fervently  I 
prayed 

For  wife  and  children  when  from  Malta 
bound  ; — 

d'he  prayer  hath  Fleaven  with  favor  crown’d; 

We  took  a Turkish  vessel  whi(  h convey’d 

Rich  store  of  treasure  for  the  Sultan’s  court  ; 

Its  own  reward  our  gallant  adlion  brought ; 

d'he  captur’d  prize  was  shared  among  the  crew, 

And  of  the  treasure  I receiv’d  my  due.” 

Martha.  How?  Where?  'J'he  treasure 
hath  he  buried,  pray  ? 

Mephis.  Where  the  four  winds  have  blown 
it,  who  can  say? 

In  Naples  as  he  stroll’d,  a stranger  there, — • 

A comely  maid  took  pity  on  my  friend  ; 

And  gave  such  tokens  of  her  love  ami  care, 

'I’hat  he  retain’d  them  to  his  blessed  end. 


Martha.  Scoundrel!  to  rol)  his  children 
of  their  bread  ! 

And  all  this  misery,  this  bitter  need, 

Conld  not  his  course  of  recklessness  impede! 

Mephis.  Well,  he  hath  [mid  the  forfeit,  and 
is  dead. 

Now  were  I in  your  place,  my  counsel  hear; 
My  weeds  I’d  wear  fcjr  one  chaste  year, 

And  for  another  lover  meanwhile  would  look 
out. 

Martha.  Alas,  I might  search  far  and 
near. 

Not  quickly  should  I find  another  like  my 
first ! 

'I'here  could  not  be  a fonder  fool  than  mine, 
Only  he  lov’d  too  well  abroad  to  roam; 

Rov’d  foreign  women  too,  and  foreign  wine. 
And  lov’d  besitles  the  dice  accnrs’d. 

Mephis.  All  had  gone  swimmingly,  no 
doubt. 

Had  he  but  given  you  at  home. 

On  his  side,  just  as  wide  a range. 

Upon  snch  terms,  to  you  I swear. 

Myself  with  you  would  gladly  rings  exchange! 

Martha.  'I'he  gentleman  is  surely  pleas’d 
to  jest ! 


53 


Mephis.  (Aside.)  Now  to  be  off  in  time, 
were  best ! 

She’d  make  the  very  devil  marry  her. 

[ To  Margaret. 

How  fares  it  witli  your  heart? 

M.argaret.  How  mean  you,  Sir? 

Mephis.  (Aside.)  The  sweet  young  inno- 
cent! \_Aloiid. 

Ladies,  farewell  ! 

Margaret.  Farewell ! 

Martha.  But  ere  you  leave  us,  quickly  tell ! 

I from  a witness  fain  had  heard. 

Where,  how  and  when  my  husband  died  and 
was  interr’d. 

To  forms  I’ve  always  been  attach’d  indeed, 

His  death  I fain  would  in  the  journals  read. 

Mephis.  Ay,  madam,  what  two  witnesses 
declare 

Is  held  as  valid  everywhere; 

A gallant  friend  I have,  not  far  from  here, 

^Vho  will  for  you  before  the  judge  appear. 

I’ll  bring  him  straight. 

Marth.a..  I pray  you  do  ! 

Mephis.  And  this  young  lady,  we  shall 
find  her  too? 

A noble  youth,  far  travell’d,  he. 

Shows  to  the  sex  all  courtesy. 

Margaret.  I in  his  presence  needs  must 
blush  for  shame. 

Mephis.  Not  in  the  presence  of  a crowned 
king! 

Martha.  The  garden,  then,  behind  my 
house  we’ll  name. 

There  we’ll  await  you  both  this  evening. 


A Street. 

Faust.  Mephistopheles. 

Faust.  How  is  it  now?  How  speeds  it? 
Is’t  in  train? 

Mephis.  Bravo!  I find  you  all  aflame  ! 

Gretchen  full  soon  your  own  you’ll  name. 

'I'his  eve,  at  neighbor  Martha’s,  her  you’ll 
meet  again ; 

The  woman  seems  expressly  made 

To  drive  the  pimp  and  gypsy’s  trade. 

Faust.  Good ! 

Mephis.  But  from  us  she  something  would 
request. 

Fau.st.  a favor  claims  return  as  this  world 
goes. 

Mephis.  We  have  on  oath  but  duly  to  attest 

That  her  dead  husband’s  limbs,  outstretch’d, 
repose 

In  holy  ground  at  Padua. 


Faust.  Sage  indeed ! 

So  I sujipose  we  straight  must  journey  there! 
Mephis.  Sandla  simplicitas  ! For  that  no 
need  ! 

Without  much  knowledge  we  have  but  to 
swear. 

Faust.  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  sug- 
gest, 

Against  your  jilan  I must  at  once  protest. 
Mephis.  Oh,  hoi)'  man ! methinks  I have 
you  there  ! 

In  all  your  life  say,  have  you  ne’er 
False  witness  borne,  until  this  hour? 

Have  you  of  God,  the  world,  and  all  it  doth 
contain. 

Of  man,  and  that  which  worketh  in  his  heart 
and  brain. 

Not  definitions  given,  in  words  of  weight  and 
j power, 

; With  front  unblushing,  and  a dauntless  breast? 

1 Yet,  if  into  the  depth  of  things  you  go, 

I Touching  these  matters,  it  must  be  confess’d. 
As  much  as  of  Herr  Schwerdtlein’s  death  you 
know ! 

Faust.  Thou  art  and  dost  remain  liar  and 
sophist  too. 

Mephis.  Ay,  if  one  did  not  take  a some- 
what deeper  view ! 

To-morrow,  in  all  honor,  thou 
Poor  Gretchen  wilt  befool,  and  vow 
Thy  soul’s  deep  love,  in  lover’s  fashion. 
Faust.  And  from  my  heart. 

Mephis.  All  good  and  fair! 

Then  deathless  constancy  thou’ It  swear; 

Speak  of  one  all-o’ermastering  passion, — 

Will  that  too  issue  from  the  heart? 

Faust.  Forbear ! 

When  passion  sways  me,  and  I seek  to  frame 
Fit  utterance  for  feeling,  deep,  intense. 

And  for  my  frenzy  finding  no  fit  name. 

Sweep  round  the  ample  world  with  every 
sense. 

Grasp  at  the  loftiest  words  to  speak  my 
flame. 

And  call  the  glow,  wherewith  I burn. 
Quenchless,  eternal,  yea,  eterne — 

Is  that  of  sophistry  a devilish  play? 

Mephis.  Yet  am  I right ! 

Faust.  Mark  this,  my  friend. 

And  spare  my  lungs:  whoe’er  to  have  the 
right  is  fain. 

If  he  have  but  a tongue,  wherewith  his  point 
to  gain. 

Will  gain  it  in  the  end. 

But  come,  of  gossip  I am  weary  quite  ; 

I Because  I’ve  no  resource,  thou’it  in  the  right. 


54 


Garden. 

Margaret  on  Faust’s  arm.  Martha  with 

Mephistopheles  walking  up  and  down. 

Margaret.  I feel  it,  you  but  spare  my 
ignorance, 

To  shame  me,  sir,  you  stoop  thus  low. 

A traveller  from  complaisance. 

Still  makes  the  best  of  things;  I know 
Too  well,  my  humble  prattle  never  can 
Have  power  to  entertain  so  wise  a man. 

Faust.  One  glance,  one  word  of  thine 
doth  charm  me  more, 

Than  the  world’s  wisdom  or  the  sage’s  lore. 

\^He  kisses  her  hand. 

Margaret.  Nay!  trouble  not  yourself! 
A hand  so  coarse. 

So  rude  as  mine,  now  can  you  kiss ! 

What  constant  work  at  home  must  I not  do 
perforce ! 

My  mother  too  e.xadting  is. 

\_They pass  on. 

Martha.  Thus,  sir,  unceasing  travel  is 
your  lot? 

Mephis.  Traffic  and  duty  urge  us!  With 
what  pain 

Are  we  compell’d  to  leave  full  many  a spot. 
Where  yet  we  dare  not  once  remain ! 

Martha.  In  youth’s  wild  years,  with  vigor 
crown’d, 

’Tis  not  amiss  thus  through  the  world  to 
sweep ; 

But  ah,  the  evil  days  come  round  ! 

And  to  a lonely  grave  as  bachelor  to  creep, 

A pleasant  thing  has  no  one  found. 

Mephis.  The  prospedl  fills  me  with  dis- 
may. 

Martha.  Therefore  in  time,  dear  sir,  re- 
fledl,  I pray.  \^They  pass  on. 

Margaret.  Ay,  out  of  sight  is  out  of 
mind  ! 

Politeness  easy  is  to  you  ; 

Friends  everywhere,  and  not  a few. 

Wiser  than  I am,  you  will  find. 

Faust.  Trust  me,  my  angel,  what  doth 
pass  for  sense 

Full  oft  is  self-conceit  and  blindness  ! 

Margaret.  How? 

Faust.  Simplicity  and  holy  innocence, — - 
When  will  ye  learn  your  hallow’d  worth  to 
know  ? 

Ah,  when  will  meekness  and  humility. 

Kind  and  all-bounteous  nature’sloftiest  dower— 

Margaret.  Only  one  little  moment  think 
of  me  ! 

To  think  of  you  I shall  have  many  an  hour. 


Faust.  You  are  perhaps  much  alone? 
Margaret.  Yes,  small  our  household  is,  I 
own. 

Yet  must  I see  to  it.  No  maid  we  keep. 

And  I must  cook,  sew,  knit  and  sweep. 

Still  early  on  my  feet  and  late  ; 

My  mother  is  in  all  things,  great  and  small. 

So  accurate  ! 

Not  that  for  thrift  there  is  such  pressing  need ; 
Than  others  we  might  make  more  show  in- 
deed ; 

My  father  left  behind  a small  estate, 

.A  house  and  garden  near  the  city-wall. 

Quiet  enough  my  life  has  been  of  late; 

My  brother  for  a soldier’s  gone; 

My  little  sister’s  dead  ; the  babe  to  rear 
Occasion’d  me  some  care  and  fond  annoy; 

But  I would  go  through  all  again  with  joy. 
The  darling  was  to  me  so  dear. 

Faust.  An  angel,  sweet,  if  it  resembled 
thee  ! 

Margaret.  I rear’d  it  up,  and  it  grew  fond 
of  me. 

.\fter  my  father’s  death  it  saw  the  day ; 

We  gave  my  mother  up  for  lost,  she  lay 
In  such  a wretched  plight,  and  then  at  length 
So  very  slowly  she  regain’d  her  strength. 

Weak  as  she  was,  ’twas  vain  for  her  to  try 
Herself  to  suckle  the  poor  babe,  so  I 
Reared  it  on  milk  and  water  all  alone ; 

And  thus  the  child  became  as  ’twere  my  own ; 
Within  my  arms  it  stretch’d  itself  and  grew. 
And  smiling,  nestled  in  my  bosom  too. 

Faust.  Doubtless  the  purest  happiness  was 
thine. 

Margaret.  But  many  weary  hours,  in 
sooth,  were  also  mine. 

■■\t  night  its  little  cradle  stood 
Close  to  my  bed ; so  was  I wide  awake 
If  it  but  stirr’d ; 

One  while  I was  oblig’d  to  give  it  food. 

Or  to  my  arms  the  darling  take; 

From  bed  full  oft  must  rise,  whene’er  its  cry  I 
heard. 

And,  dancing  it,  must  pace  the  chamber  to  and 
fro  ; 

Stand  at  the  wash-tub  early;  forthwith  go 
'fo  market,  and  then  mind  the  cooking  too — 
To-morrow  like  to-day,  the  whole  year  through. 
Ah,  sir,  thus  living,  it  must  be  confess’d 
On'^’s  s])irits  are  not  always  of  the  best ; 

Yet  it  a relish  gives  to  food  and  rest. 

\_They pass  on. 

Martha.  Poor  women  ! we  are  badly  off, 
I own  ; 

A bachelor’s  conversion’s  hard,  indeed  ! 


55 


Mephis.  Madam,  with  one  like  you  it  rests 
alone 

To  tutor  me  a better  course  to  lead. 

Martha.  Speak  frankly,  sir,  none  is  there 
you  have  met  ? 

Has  your  heart  ne’er  attach’d  itself  as  yet? 

Mephis.  One’s  own  fireside  and  a good 
wife  are  gold 

And  pearls  of  price,  so  says  the  proverb  old. 

Martha.  I mean,  has  passion  never  stirr’d 
your  breast  ? 

Mephis.  I’ve  everywhere  been  well  re- 
ceiv’d, I own. 

Martha.  Yet  hath  your  heart  no  earnest 
]jreference  known  ? 

Mephis.  With  ladies  one  should  ne’er  pre- 
sume to  jest. 

Martha.  Ah  ! you  mistake  ! 

Mephis.  I’m  sorry  I’m  so  blind  ! 

But  this  I know — that  you  are  very  kind. 

[ They  pass  on. 

Faust.  Me,  little  angel,  didst  thou  recognize. 

When  in  tlie  garden  first  I came? 

Margaret.  Did  you  not  see  it?  I cast 
down  my  eyes. 

Faust.  Thou  dost  forgive  my  boldness,  dost 
not  blame 

The  liberty  I took  that  day. 

When  thou  from  church  didst  lately  wend  thy 
way  ? 

Margaret.  I was  confus’d.  So  had  it  never 
been  ; 

No  one  of  me  could  any  evil  say. 

Alas,  thought  I,  he  doubtless  in  thy  mien 

Something  unmaidenly  or  bold  hath  seen  ? 

It  seem’d  as  if  it  struck  him  suddenly, 

Here’s  just  a girl  with  whom  one  may  make 
free  ! 

Yet  1 must  own  that  then  I scarcely  knew 

What  in  your  favor  here  began  at  once  to 
plead  ; 

Yet  I was  angry  with  myself  indeed, 

That  I more  angry  could  not  feel  with  you. 

Faust.  Sweet  love  ! 

Margaret.  Just  wait  awhile  ! 

\^She  gathers  a star-flower  and  plucks  off  the 
leaves  one  after  another. 

Faust.  A nosegay  may  that  be  ? 

Margaret.  No  ! It  is  but  a game. 

Faust.  How? 

Margaret.  Go,  you’ll  laugh  at  me! 

\She  plucks  off  the  leaves  and  murmurs  to 
herself. 

Faust.  What  murmurest  thou  ? 

Margaret.  (Half  aloud.)  He  loves  me, — 
loves  me  not. 


Faust.  Sweet  angel,  with  thy  face  of  heav- 
enly bliss ! 

Margaret.  ( Continues.)  He  loves  me — ■ 
not — he  loves  me — not — 

[^Flucklng  off  the  last  leaf  with  fond  joy. 

He  loves  me  ! 

Faust.  Yes  I 

And  this  flower-language,  darling,  let  it  be, 

A heavenly  oracle  ! He  loveth  thee  ! 

Know’st  thou  the  meaning  of.  He  loveth  thee? 

\JFIe  seizes  both  her  hands. 
Margaret.  I tremble  so  I 
Faust.  Nay  ! do  not  tremble,  love  ! 

Let  this  hand-pressure,  let  this  glance  reveal 
Feelings,  all  power  of  speech  above; 

To  give  one’s  .self  up  wholly  and  to  feel 
A joy  that  must  eternal  prove  I 
Eternal  ! — Yes,  its  end  would  be  despair. 

No  end  ! — It  cannot  end  ! 

[Margaret  presses  his  hand,  extricates  her- 
self, and  runs  away.  He  stands  a ?noment 
in  thought,  and  then  follows  her. 

Martha.  (Approaching.)  Night’s  closing. 
Mephis.  Yes,  we’ll  presently  away. 

Martha.  I would  entreat  you  longer  yet  to 
stay ; 

But  ’tis  a wicked  place,  just  here  about ; 

It  is  as  if  the  folk  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
Nothing  to  think  of  too. 

But  gaping  watch  their  neighbors,  who  goes  in 
and  out ; 

And  scandal’s  busy  still,  do  whatsoe’er  one 
may. 

And  our  young  couple? 

Mephis.  They  have  flown  up  there. 

The  wanton  butterflies  ! 

Martha.  He  seems  to  take  to  her. 

Mephis.  And  she  to  him.  ’Tis  of  the 
world  the  way ! 


A Summer-House. 

Margaret  runs  in,  hides  behind  the  door, 
holds  the  tip  of  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and 
peeps  through  the  crez'ice. 

Margaret.  He  comes ! 

Faust.  Ah,  little  rogue,  so  thou 

Think’st  to  provoke  me  ! I have  caught  thee 
now  1 

\^He  kisses  her. 

Margaret.  ( Embracing  him  and  returning 
the  kiss.)  Dearest  of  men  ! I love  thee 
from  my  heart ! 

[Mephistopheles  knocks. 

Faust.  (Stamping. ) Who’s  there? 

( 


56 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUS'r.  FIRST  PAR'T. 


FAUST  AND  MARGARET  IN  IME  GARDEN. 


Mephis. 

A friend  ! 

Faust. 

A brute  ! 

Mephis. 

’'Pis  time  to  part. 

Martha. 

(Conies.)  Ay,  it  is  late,  good 

sir. 

Faust. 

Mayn’t  I attend  you,  then? 

Margaret. 

Oh  no — my  mother  would — 

adieu,  adieti ! 

Faust.  And  must  I really  then  take  leave 
of  you  ? 

Farewell  ! 

Martha.  Good-bye  ! 

Marcaket.  Ere  long  to  meet  again  ! 

\_Rxeuut  Faust  and  Mephistorhklks. 
Margaret.  Good  heavens!  how  all  things 
far  and  near 

Must  fill  his  mind, — a man  like  this ! 

Abash’d  before  him  I appear, 

And  say  to  all  things  only  yes. 

Poor  simple  child,  I cannot  see 

What  ’tis  that  he  can  find  in  me.  [A'.v//. 


Forest  and  Cavern. 

Faust.  (Alone.)  Spirit  sublime!  Thou 
gav’st  me,  gav’st  me  all 


For  whi(  h 1 pray’d  ! Not  vainly  hast  thou 
turn’d 

'I'o  me  thy  countenance  in  flaming  fire  : 
fdav’st  me  glorious  nature  for  my  realm, 

And  also  power  to  feel  her  and  enjoy ; 

Not  merely  with  a cold  and  wond’ring  glance, 
'Phou  dost  iiermit  me  in  her  depths  profound. 
As  in  the  bosom  of  a friend,  to  gaze. 

Before  me  thou  dost  lead  her  living  tribes. 
And  dost  in  silent  grove,  in  air  and  stream 
Teach  me  to  know  my  kindred.  And  when 
roars 

'I'he  howling  storm-blast  through  the  groaning 
wood. 

Wrenching  the  giant  pine,  which  in  its  fall 
Crashing  sweeps  down  its  neighbor  trunks  and 
boughs, 

While  with  the  hollow  noise  the  hill  resounds, 
'I’hen  thou  dost  lead  me  to  some  shelter’d  cave, 
Dost  there  reveal  me  to  myself,  and  show 
Of  my  own  bosom  the  mysterious  tlej)ths. 

.\nd  when,  with  soothing  beam,  the  moon’s 
pale  orb 

Full  in  my  view  climbs  up  the  pathless  sky. 
From  crag  and  dewy  grove  the  silvery  forms 
(-)f  bygone  ages  hover,  and  asstiage 
'I'he  joy  austere  of  contemjflativc  thought. 


57 


Oh,  that  naught  perfe6l  is  assign’d  to  man, 

I feel,  alas  ! With  this  exalted  joy, 

Which  lifts  me  near  and  nearer  to  the  gods, 
'I'hou  gav’st  me  this  companion,  unto  whom 
I needs  must  cling,  though  cold  and  in- 
solent ; 

fde  still  degrades  me  to  myself,  and  turns 
Thy  glorious  gifts  to  nothing  with  a breath. 

He  in  my  bosom  with  malicious  zeal 
For  that  fair  image  fans  a raging  fire ; 

From  craving  to  enjoyment  thus  I reel. 

And  in  enjoyment  languish  for  desire. 

[M EPH  iSTOPH ELES  entcfs. 
Mephis.  Of  this  lone  life  have  you  not  had 
your  fill  ? 

How  for  so  long  can  it  have  charms  for  you  ? 
"I'is  well  enough  to  try  it  if  you  will ; 

But  then  away  again  to  something  new  ! 

Faust.  Would  you  could  better  occupy 
your  leisure 

Than  in  disturbing  thus  my  hours  of  joy. 
Mephis.  Well  ! well  ! Fll  leave  you  to 
yourself  with  pleasure, 

,\  serious  tone  you  hardly  dare  employ. 

To  part  from  one  so  crazy,  harsh  and  cross 
1 should  not  find  a grievous  loss. 

The  livelong  day,  for  you  I toil  and  fret ; 
Ne’er  from  his  worship’s  face  a hint  I get, 
W’hat  pleases  him,  or  what  to  let  alone. 

Faust.  Ay  truly ! that  is  just  the  proper 
tone  ! 

He  wearies  me,  and  would  with  thanks  be 
paid  ! 

Mephis.  Poor  Son  of  Earth,  without  my 
aid, 

How'  would  thy  weary  days  have  flown  ? 

'I'hee  of  thy  foolish  whims  Fve  cur’d, 

'I'hy  vain  imaginations  banish’d. 

And  but  for  me,  be  well  assur’d, 

'I'hou  from  this  sphere  must  soon  have  van- 
ish’d. 

In  rocky  hollows  and  in  caverns  drear. 

Why  like  an  owl  sit  moping  here? 

Wherefore  from  dripping  stones  and  moss  with 
ooze  imbued. 

Dost  suck,  like  any  toad,  thy  food? 

.\  rare,  sweet  pastime.  Verily  ! 

'I’he  dodlor  cleaveth  still  to  thee. 

Faust.  Dost  comprehend  what  bliss  with- 
out alloy 

From  this  wild  wand’ ring  in  the  desert 
springs  ? — 

Couldst  thou  l)ut  guess  the  new  life-power  it 
brings, 

'Phou  wouldst  be  fiend  enough  to  envy  me  my 
joy. 


Mephis.  What  super-earthly  ecstasy  ! at 
night, 

'I'o  lie  in  darkness  on  the  dewy  height. 
Embracing  heaven  and  earth  in  rapture  high, 
'Fhe  soul  dilating  to  a deity  ; 

With  prescient  yearnings  [lierce  the  core  of 
earth. 

Feel  in  your  laboring  breast  the  six-days’  birth. 
Enjoy,  in  proud  delight  what  no  one  knows. 
While  your  love-rapture  o’er  creation  flows, — 
The  earthly  lost  in  beatific  vision. 

And  then  the  lofty  intuition — 

[ With  a gesture. 

I need  not  tell  you  how^ — to  close  ! 

P'aust.  Fie  on  you  ! 

Mephis.  This  displeases  you?  “For 

shame  !’’ 

You  are  forsooth  entitled  to  exclaim  ; 

We  to  chaste  ears  it  seems  must  not  pronounce 
What,  nathless,  the  chaste  heart  cannot  re- 
nounce. 

Well,  to  be  brief,  the  joy  as  fit  occasions  rise, 
I grudge  you  not,  of  specious  lies. 

But  soon  the  self-deluding  vein 

Is  past,  once  more  thou’rt  whirl’d  away. 

And  should  it  last,  thou’ It  be  the  jirey 
Of  frenzy  or  remorse  and  pain. 

Enough  of  this  ! Thy  true  love  dwells  apart. 
And  all  to  her  seems  flat  and  tame; 

Alone  thine  image  fills  her  heart. 

She  loves  thee  with  an  all-devouring  flame. 
First  came  thy  passion  with  o’erpowering  rush. 
Like  mountain  torrent,  swollen  by  the  melted 
snow ; 

Full  in  her  heart  didst  pour  the  sudden  gush, 
Now  has  thy  brooklet  ceas’d  to  flow. 

Instead  of  sitting  thron’d  midst  forests  wild. 

It  would  become  so  great  a lord 
To  comfort  the  enamour’d  child, 

And  the  young  monkey  for  her  love  reward. 
To  her  the  hours  seem  miserably  long  ; 

She  from  the  window  sees  the  clouds  float  by 
As  o’er  the  lofty  city-walls  they  fly. 

“If  la  birdie  were  !”  so  runs  her  song. 

Half  through  the  night  and  all  day  long; 
Cheerful  sometimes,  more  oft  at  heart  full  sore; 
Fairly  outwept  seem  now  her  tears. 

Anon  she  tranquil  is,  or  so  appears. 

And  lovesick  evermore. 

Faust.  Snake  ! Serpent  vile  ! 

Mephis.  (Aside.)  Good!  If  I catch 
thee  with  my  guile  ! 

Faust.  Vile  reprobate  ! go  get  thee  hence ; 
Forbear  the  lovely  girl  to  name  ! 

Nor  in  my  half-distra6ted  sense. 

Kindle  anew  the  smouldering  flame  ! 


58 


Mephis.  What  wouldst  thou  ! She  thinks 
you’ve  taken  flight ; 

It  seems  she’s  partly  in  the  right. 

Faust.  I’m  near  her  still — and  should  I 
distant  rove, 

Her  I can  ne’er  forget,  ne’er  lose  her  love  ; 

And  all  things  touch’d  by  those  sweet  lips  of 
hers. 

Even  the  very  Host  my  envy  stirs. 

Mephis.  ’Tis  well ! I oft  have  envi’d  you 
indeed. 

The  twin-pair  that  among  the  roses  feed. 

Faust.  Pander,  avaunt  ! 

Mephis.  Go  to  ! I laugh,  the  while  you 
rail. 

The  power  which  fashion’d  youth  and  maid. 


Well  understood  the  noble  trade ; 

So  neither  shall  occasion  fail. 

But  hence  ! — In  truth  a case  for  gloom  ! 
Bethink  thee,  to  thy  mistress’  room 
And  not  to  death  shouldst  go  ! 

Faust.  What  is  to  me  heaven’s  joy  within 
her  arms  ? 

What  though  my  life  her  bosom  warms  ! — • 

Uo  I not  ever  feel  her  woe  ? 

The  outcast  am  I not,  who  knows  no  rest. 
Inhuman  monster,  aimless  and  unblest. 

Who,  like  the  greedy  surge,  from  rock  to 
rock. 

Sweeps  down  the  dread  abyss  with  desperate 
shock  ? 

While  she,  within  her  lowly  cot,  which  grac’d 


■111)%= 


Fausf.  First  Part. 


The  Alpine  slope,  beside  the  waters  wild, 

Her  homely  cares  in  that  small  world  em- 
brac’d. 

Secluded  liv’d,  a simple  artless  child. 

Was  t not  enough,  in  thy  delirious  whirl, 
lo  blast  the  steadfast  rocks? 

Her,  and  her  peace  as  well. 

Must  I,  God-hated  one,  to  ruin  hurl  ! 

Dost  claim  this  holocaust,  remorseless  Hell  ! 
Fiend,  help  me  to  cut  short  the  hours  of  dread  ! 
Let  what  must  happen,  happen  speedil}- ! 

Her  direful  doom  fall  crushing  on  my  head. 
And  into  ruin  let  her  plunge  with  me  ! 

Mephis.  Why  how  again  it  seethes  and 
glows ! 

Away,  thou  fool ! Her  torment  ease  ! 

\\  hen  such  a head  no  issue  sees. 

It  pidures  straight  the  final  close. 

Long  life  to  him  who  boldly  dares  ! 

A devil’s  pluck  thou’rt  wont  to  show; 

As  for  a devil  who  despairs. 

There’s  naught  so  mawkish  here  below. 


Margaret’.s  Room. 

M.argaret.  ( Alone  at  her  spinning-wheel. ) 

My  peace  is  gone. 

My  heart  is  sore, 

I find  it  never. 

And  nevermore  ! 

Where  him  I have  not. 

Is  the  grave  to  me ; 

And  bitter  as  gall 

The  whole  world  to  me. 

My  wilder’d  brain 
Is  overwrought ; 

My  feeble  senses 
Are  distraught. 

My  peace  is  gone. 

My  heart  is  sore, 

I find  it  never. 

And  nevermore  ! 

For  him  from  the  window 
I gaze,  at  home ; 

For  him  and  him  only 
Abroad  I roam. 

His  lofty  step. 

His  bearing  high. 

The  smile  of  his  lip. 

The  power  of  his  eye. 


His  witching  words. 
Their  tones  of  bliss. 

His  hand’s  fond  pressure. 
And  ah — his  kiss  ! 

My  peace  is  gone. 

My  heart  is  sore, 

I find  it  never. 

And  nevermore. 

My  bosom  aches 
To  feel  him  near; 

Ah,  could  I clasp 
And  fold  h im  here  ! 

Kiss  him  and  kiss  him 
Again  would  I, 

And  on  his  kisses 
I fain  would  die  ! 


Martha’s  Garden. 

Margaret  and  Faust. 

Margaret.  Promise  me,  Henry — 

Faust.  what  I can  ! 

Margaret.  How  is  it  with  religion  in  thv 
mind?  ^ 

Thou  art  a dear  kind-hearted  man, 

But  I’m  afraid  not  piously  inclin’d.  ^ 
Faust.  Forbear!  Thou  feel’st  I love  thee 
alone ; 

For  those  I love,  my  life  I would  lay  down. 
And  none  would  of  their  faith  or  church  be- 
reave. 

Margaret.  That’s  not  enough,  we  must 
ourselves  believe  I 
Faust.  Must  we? 

Margaret.  Ah,  could  I but  thy  soul  in- 
spire ! 

Thou  honorest  not  the  sacraments,  alas! 

Faust.  I honor  them. 

^ Margaret.  But  yet  without  desire ; 

’Tis  long  since  thou  hast  been  either  to  shrift 
or  mass. 

Dost  thou  believe  in  God? 

Faust.  My  darling,  who  dares  say. 

Yes,  I in  God  believe? 

Question  or  priest  or  .sage,  and  they 
Seem,  in  the  answer  you  receive. 

To  mock  the  questioner. 

Margaret.  Then  thou  dost  not  believe? 
Faust.  Sweet  one!  my  meaning  do  not 
misconceive ! 

Him  who  dare  name 


6o 


And  wlio  proclaim, 

Him  I believe? 

Who  that  can  feel, 

His  heart  can  steel. 

To  say:  I believe  him  not? 

The  All-embracer, 

All  sustainer. 

Holds  and  sustains  he  not 
Thee,  me,  himself? 

Lifts  not  the  Heaven  its  dome  above? 

Doth  not  the  firm-set  earth  beneath  us  lie? 
And  beaming  tenderly  with  looks  of  love. 
Climb  not  the  everlasting  stars  on  high? 

Do  I not  gaze  into  thine  eyes? 

Nature’s  impenetrable  agencies. 

Are  they  not  thronging  on  thy  heart  and 
brain. 

Viewless,  or  visible  to  mortal  ken. 

Around  thee  weaving  their  mysterious  chain? 
Fill  thence  thy  heart,  how  large  soe’er  it  be; 
And  in  the  feeling  when  thou  utterly  art 
blest. 

Then  call  it,  what  thou  wilt, — 

Call  it  Bliss ! Heart ! Love  ! God  ! 

I have  no  name  for  it ! 

’Tis  feeling  all ; 

Name  is  but  sound  and  smoke 
Shrouding  the  glow  of  heaven. 

Margaret.  All  this  is  doubtless  good  and 
fair ; 

Almost  the  same  the  parson  says. 

Only  in  slightly  different  phrase. 

Faust.  Beneath  heaven’s  sunshine,  every- 
where. 

This  is  the  utterance  of  the  human  heart ; 
Each  in  his  language  doth  the  like  impart; 
Then  why  not  I in  mine? 

Margaret.  Wdiat  thus  I hear 

Sounds  plausible,  yet  I’m  not  reconcil’d; 
There’s  something  wrong  about  it ; much  I fear 
That  thou  art  not  a Christian. 

Faust.  My  sweet  child  ! 

Margaret.  .<\las ! it  long  hath  sorely 
troubled  me. 

To  see  thee  in  such  odious  company. 

Faust.  How  so? 

Margaret.  The  man  who  comes  with 
thee,  1 hate. 

Yea,  in  my  spirit’s  inmost  depths  abhor; 

As  his  loath’d  visage,  in  my  life  before. 

Naught  to  my  heart  e’er  gave  a {)ang  so  great. 
Faitst.  Fear  not,  sweet  love  ! 

Margaret.  His  presence  chills  my  blood. 
Towards  all  beside  I have  a kindly  mood ; 

Yet,  though  I yearn  to  gaze  on  thee,  I feel 
At  sight  of  him  strange  horror  o’er  me  steal ; 


That  he’s  a villain  my  convidtion’s  strong. 
May  Heaven  forgive  me,  if  I do  him  wrong! 
Faust.  Yet  such  strange  fellows  in  the 
world  must  be ! 

Margaret.  I would  not  live  with  such  an 
one  as  he. 

If  for  a moment  he  but  enter  here, 

He  looks  around  him  with  a mocking  sneer. 
And  malice  ill-conceal’d ; 

That  he,  with  naught  on  earth  can  sympathize 
is  clear ; 

Upon  his  brow  ’tis  legibly  reveal’d. 

That  to  his  heart  no  living  soul  is  dear. 

So  blest  I feel,  within  thine  arms. 

So  warm  and  happy — free  from  all  alarms; 
And  still  my  heart  doth  close  when  he  comes 
near. 

Faust.  Foreboding  angel ! check  thy  fear ! 
Margaret.  It  so  o’ermasters  me,  that 
when 

Or  wheresoe’er  his  step  I hear, 

I almost  think,  no  more  I love  thee  then. 
Besides,  when  he  is  near,  I ne’er  could  pray. 
This  eats  into  my  heart ; with  thee 
The  same,  my  Henry,  it  must  be. 

Faust.  This  is  antipathy  I 
Margaret.  I must  away. 

Faust.  For  one  brief  hour  then  may  I 
never  rest. 

And  heart  to  heart,  and  soul  to  soul  be 
press’d  ? 

Margaret.  Ah,  if  I slept  alone,  to-night 
'Fhe  bolt  I fain  would  leave  undrawn  for  thee; 
But  then  my  mother’s  sleep  is  light. 

Were  we  surpris’d  by  her,  ah  me ! 

Upon  the  spot  I should  be  dead. 

Faust.  Dear  angel ! there’s  no  cause  for 
dread. 

Here  is  a little  ])hial, — if  she  take 
Mix’d  in  her  drink  three  drops,  ’twill  steep 
Her  nature  in  a deep  and  soothing  sleep. 
Margaret.  What  do  I not  for  thy  dear 
sake  I 

To  her  it  will  not  harmful  prove? 

Faust.  Should  I advise  else,  sweet  love? 
Margaret.  I know  not,  dearest,  when  thy 
face  I see. 

What  doth  my  spirit  to  thy  will  constrain; 
Already  I have  done  so  much  for  thee. 

That  scarcely  more  to  do  doth  now  remain. 

[Extf. 

[M EPH ISTOPHELES  eutCfS. 

Mephis.  The  monkey  ! Is  she  gone? 
Faust.  Again  hast  jday’d  the  spy? 

Mep}hs.  Of  all  that  pass’d  I’m  well  ap- 
pris’d. 


6i 


I 


I lieard  the  doctor  catechis’d, 

And  trust  he’ll  ])rofit  much  thereby! 

]*'ain  would  the  girls  iu(|uire  indeed 
'rouchiug  their  lover’s  faith,  if  he 
Helieve  according  to  the  ancient  creed; 

They  think:  if  pliant  there,  to  us  he’ll  yield- 
ing be. 

Faust.  Thou  monster,  dost  not  see  that 
this 

Pure  soul,  jrossess’d  by  ardent  love, 
h’nll  of  the  living  faith. 

To  her  of  bliss 

'I’he  only  |)ledge,  must  holy  anguish  prove. 
Molding  the  man  she  loves,  fore-doom’d  to 
endless  death ! 

Mephis.  Most  sensual,  supersensualist! 
'I'iie  while 

.\  damsel  leads  thee  by  the  nose ! 

F.aust.  Of  filth  and  fire  abortion  vile ! 
Mephis.  In  phy.siognomy  strange  skill  she 
shows ; 

She  in  my  presence  feels  she  knows  not 
how ; 

My  mask  it  se^ms  a hidden  sense  reveals; 

That  I’m  a genius  she  must  needs  allow. 

That  I’m  the  very  devil  perhaps  she  feels. 

So  then  to-night — 

Fau.st.  What’s  that  to  you? 

Meitiis.  I’ve  my  amusement  in  it  too! 


At  the  Wei.l. 

Maegaret  and  Bessy  with  pitchers. 

Bessy.  Of  Barbara  hast  nothing  heard? 
Margaret.  I rarely  go  from  home, — no, 
not  a word. 

Bessy.  ’Tis  true : Sybilla  told  me  so  to-day  ! 
d’hat  comes  of  being  jiroud,  methinks; 

She  play’d  the  fool  at  last. 

Margaret.  How  so? 

Bessy.  They  say 

That  two  she  feedeth  when  she  eats  and  drinks. 
Mar(;aret.  Alas! 

Bessy.  She’s  rightly  serv’d,  in  sooth. 

I How  long  she  hung  upon  the  youth! 
j What  jiromenades,  what  jaunts  there  were, 

I To  dancing  booth  and  village  fair! 

1 d'he  first  she  everywhere  must  shine. 

He  always  treating  her  to  pastry  and  to  wine. 

I Of  her  good  looks  she  was  so  vain, 

I So  shameless,  too,  that  she  did  not  disdain 
Even  his  presents  to  retain  ; 

.Sweet  words  and  kisses  came  anon — 

And  then  the  virgin  flower  was  gone! 
Margaret.  Poor  thing! 

Bessy.  Forsooth  dost  pity  her? 

At  night,  when  at  our  wheels  we  sat, 

.Abroad  our  mothers  ne’er  would  let  us  stir. 

I Then  with  her  lover  she  must  chat. 


62 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM, 

FAUST.  FIRST  FAR'l’. 


MARGARET  AT  THE  SHRINE. 


Or  on  the  bench,  or  in  the  dusky  walk, 
Thinking  the  hours  too  brief  for  their  sweet 
talk ; 

Her  proud  head  she  will  have  to  bow. 

And  in  white  sheet  do  penance  now  ! 

Margaret.  But  he  will  surely  marry  her? 
Bessy.  Not  he ! 

He  won’t  be  such  a fool ! a gallant  lad. 

Like  him  can  roam  o’er  land  and  sea; 

Besides,  he’s  off. 

Margaret.  That  is  not  fair ! 

Bessy.  If  she  should  get  him,  ’twere  al- 
most as  bad ! 

Her  myrtle  wreath  the  boys  would  tear; 

.And  then  we  girls  would  plague  her  too. 

For  we  chopp’d  straw  before  her  door  would 
strew ! \^Exif. 

Margaret.  ( IValking  fowards  home.) 
How  stoutly  once  I could  inveigh. 

If  a poor  maiden  went  astray! 

Not  words  enough  my  tongue  could  find 
’Gainst  others’  sin  to  speak  my  mind  ; 

Black  as  it  seem’d,  I blacken’d  it  still  more. 
And  strove  to  make  it  blacker  than  before. 
And  did  my.self  securely  bless — ■ 

Now  my  own  trespass  doth  appear  I 
Yet  ah  ! — what  urg’d  me  to  transgress. 

Sweet  heaven,  it  was  so  good!  so  dear! 


Zwin(;er. 

Enclosure  hehveen  the  City-wall  and  the  Gate. 

[/;;  the  niche  of  the  7oall  a devotional  image 
of  the  Mater  Dolorosa,  with  flo7i>er-pots 
before  it. 

Mar<;aret.  (Putting  fresh  flmuers  in  the 
pots.)  Ah,  rich  in  sorrow,  thou. 

Stoop  thy  maternal  brow. 

And  mark  with  pitying  eye  my  misery! 

The  sword  in  thy  pierc’d  heart, 

'I'hou  dost  with  bitter  smart. 

Gaze  upwards  on  thy  Son’s  death  agony. 

To  the  dear  God  on  high, 

.Ascends  thy  ])iteous  sigh. 

Pleading  for  his  and  thy  sore  misery. 

.Ah,  who  can  know 
The  torturing  woe. 

The  pangs  that  rack  me  to  the  bone? 

How  my  poor  heart,  without  relief. 
Trembles  and  throbs,  its  yearning  grief 
d'hou  knowest,  thou  alone! 


Ah,  wheresoe’er  I go. 

With  woe,  with  woe,  with  woe. 

My  anguish’d  breast  is  aching! 

When  all  alone  I creep, 

I weep,  I weep,  I weep, 

Alas!  my  heart  is  breaking ! 

The  flower-pots  at  my  window 
Were  wet  with  tears  of  mine. 

The  while  I pluck’d  these  blossoms. 

At  dawn  to  deck  thy  shrine! 

When  early  in  my  chamber 
Shone  bright  the  rising  morn, 

I sat  there  on  my  pallet. 

My  heart  with  anguish  torn. 

Help ! from  disgrace  and  death  deliver  me  ! 
Ah  ! rich  in  sorrow,  thou. 

Stoop  thy  maternal  brow. 

And  mark  with  pitying  eye  my  misery ! 


Night. 

Street  before  Margaret’s  door. 
Valentine.  (A  soldier,  Margaret’s 
brother.)  When  seated  ’mong  the  jovial 
crowd 

Where  merry  comrades  boasting  loud. 

Each  nam’d  with  pride  his  favorite  lass, 

.And  in  her  honor  drain’d  his  glass  ; 

Upon  my  elbows  I would  lean. 

With  easy  quiet  view  the  scene. 

Nor  give  my  tongue  the  rein,  until 
Each  swaggering  blade  had  talk’d  his  fill. 
Then  smiling  I my  beard  would  stroke. 

The  while,  with  brimming  glass,  I spoke; 

“ Each  to  his  taste! — but  to  mv  mind. 

Where  in  the  country  will  you  find, 

■A  maid,  as  my  dear  Gretchen  fair. 

Who  with  my  sister  can  compare?” 

Cling!  clang!  so  rang  the  jovial  sound  ! 
Shouts  of  assent  went  circling  round  ; 

Pride  of  her  sex  is  she  ! — cried  some  ; 

Then  were  the  noisy  boasters  dumb. 

And  now  ! — I could  tear  out  my  hair. 

Or  dash  my  brains  out  in  despair  ! — 

Me  every  scurvy  knave  may  twit. 

With  stinging  jest  and  taunting  sneer  ! 

Like  skulking  debtor  I must  sit, 

.And  sweat  each  casual  word  to  hear  ! 

And  though  I smash’d  them  one  and  all, — 
Yet  them  I could  not  liars  call. 

Who  comes  this  way?  who’s  sneaking  here? 
If  I mistake  not,  two  draw  near. 


63 


If  he  be  one,  have  at  him  ; — well  I wot 
Alive  he  shall  not  leave  this  spot  ! 

Faust.  Mkphistothei.es. 

F.aust.  Flow  from  yon  sacristy,  athwart 
the  night, 

Its  beams  the  ever-burning  taper  throws. 

While  ever  waning,  fades  the  glimmering 
light, 

.\s  gathering  darkness  doth  around  it  close  ! 

So  night-like  gloom  doth  in  my  bosom  reign. 
Mephis.  I’m  like  a tom-cat  in  a thievish 
vei  n , 

That  uj)  fire-ladders  tall  and  steep, 

• Vnd  round  the  walls  doth  slyly  creep  ; 
Virtuous  withal,  I feel,  with,  I confess, 

■\  touch  of  thievish  joy  and  wantonness. 

'I'lius  through  my  limbs  already  there  doth 
bound 

'File  glorious  Walpurgis  night  ! 

•\fter  to-morrow  it  again  comes  round. 

What  one  doth  wake  for,  then  one  knows 
aright  ! 

Fau.st.  Meanwhile,  the  flame  which  I see 
glimmering  there. 

Is  it  the  treasure  rising  in  the  air? 

Mephis.  Fire  long,  I make  no  doubt,  but 
you 

To  raise  the  chest  will  feel  inclin’d  ; 

Frewhile  I peep’d  within  it  too; 

With  lion-dollars  ’tis  well  lin’d. 

F’aust.  And  not  a trinket?  not  a ring? 
Wherewith  my  lovely  girl  to  deck? 


Mephis.  I saw  among  them  some  such 
thing, 

string  of  ])earls  to  grace  her  neck. 

FAust.  ’Tis  well ! I’m  always  loath  to  go. 
Without  some  gift  my  love  to  show. 

Mephis.  Some  iileasures  gratis  to  enjoy. 
Should  surely  cause  you  no  annoy. 

While  bright  with  stars  the  heavens  appear. 

I’ll  sing  a masterpiece  of  art: 
moral  song  shall  charm  her  ear. 

More  surely  to  beguile  her  heart. 

(S/;/gs  to  the  guitar.') 

Kathrina,  .say, 

^V^hy  lingering  stay 
At  dawn  of  day 
Before  your  lover’s  door  ? . 

Maiden,  beware. 

Nor  enter  there. 

Lest  forth  you  fare, 

A maiden  never  more. 

Maiden,  take  heed  ! 

Reck  well  my  rede  ! 

Is’t  done,  the  deed  ? 

Good-night,  you  poor,  poor  thing! 
The  spoiler’s  lies. 

His  arts  despise. 

Nor  yield  your  jirize, 

W’ithout  the  marriage  ring  ! 
Valentine.  (Steps  forward.)  Whom  are 
you  luring  here?  I’ll  give  it  you  ! 
•\ccursed  rat-catchers,  your  strains  I’ll  end  ! 


y 


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64 


ARTIST  FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUST.  FIRST  I'AR'I'. 


THE  UEAl  h OF  VALENTINE. 


First,  to  the  devil  the  guitar  I’ll  send  ! 

Then  to  the  devil  with  the  singer  too  ! 

Mephis.  The  poor  guitar  ! ’tis  done  for  now. 
V.\LENTiNE.  Your  skull  shall  follow  next,  I 
trow  ! 

Mephis.  (7h  Faust.)  Dodtor,  stand  fast! 
your  strength  colled!  ! 

Be  prompt,  and  do  as  I diredl. 

Out  with  your  whisk  1 keep  close,  I pray,  , 

I’ll  parry!  do  you  thrust  away! 

Valentine.  Then  parry  that  ! 

Mephis.  Why  not? 

Valentine.  That  too  ! 

Mephis.  With  ease  ! 

Valentine.  The  devil  fights  for  you  ! 

Why  how  is  this?  my  hand’s  already  lamed  ! 
Mephis.  (7h  Faust.)  Thrust  home  ! 
Valentine.  (Fa//s.)  Alas! 

Mephis.  'I'here  ! Now  the  lubber’s  tamed  ! 
But  quick,  away  ! We  must  at  once  take  wing ; 
A cry  of  murder  strikes  upon  the  ear ; 

With  the  police  I know  my  course  to  steer. 

But  with  the  blood-ban  ’tis  another  thing. 
Martha.  (A/  the  window.)  Without! 
without  ! 

Margaret.  (At  the  window.)  Quick, 

bring  a light  ! 

Martha.  (As  above.)  They  rail  and 
scuffle,  scream  and  fight ! 

People.  One  lieth  here  already  dead  ! 
Martha.  ( Coming  out.)  Where  are  the 
murderers  ? Are  they  fled  ? 

Margaret.  ( Coming  out.)  Who  lieth 

here  ? 

People.  Thv  mother’s  son. 

Margaret.  Almighty  God  ! I am  undone  ! 
Valentine.  I’m  dying — ’tis  a soon-told 

tale. 

And  sooner  done  the  deed. 

Why,  women,  do  ye  howl  and  wail? 

To  my  last  words  give  heed  ! 

\_All gather  round  him. 
Gretchen,  thou’rt  still  of  tender  age. 

And,  well  I wot,  not  over  .sage, 

'I'hou  dost  thy  matters  ill ; 

Let  this  in  confidence  be  said  : 

Since  thou  the  path  of  shame  dost  tread. 
Tread  it  with  right  good  will  ! 

Margaret.  My  brother  ! God  ! what  can 
this  mean  ? 

Valentine.  Abstain, 

Nor  dare  God’s  holy  name  profane  ! 

What’s  done,  alas,  is  done  and  past ! 

Matters  will  take  their  course  at  last ; 

By  stealth  thou  dost  begin  with  one, 

Others  will  follow  him  anon  ; 


And  when  a dozen  thee  have  known, 

Thou’lt  common  be  to  all  the  town. 

I When  infamy  is  newly  born, 

I In  secret  she  is  brought  to  light. 

And  the  mysterious  veil  of  night 
O’er  head  and  ears  is  drawn  ; 

The  loathsome  birth  men  fain  would  slay ; 

But  soon,  full  grown,  she  waxes  bold. 

And  though  not  fairer  to  behold, 

! With  brazen  front  insults  the  day  : 

The  more  abhorrent  to  the  sight, 

The  more  she  courts  the  day’s  pure  light. 

The  time  already  I discern. 

When  thee  all  honest  folk  will  spurn, 

I And  shun  thy  hated  form  to  meet, 

I As  when  a corpse  infedts  the  street. 

Thy  heart  will  sink  in  blank  despair. 

When  they  shall  look  thee  in  the  face  ! 

A golden  chain  no  more  thou’lt  wear — 

Nor  near  the  altar  take  in  church  thy  place — 
In  fair  lace  collar  simply  dight 
i 'I'hou’lt  dance  no  more  with  spirits  light — 
i In  darksome  corners  thou  wilt  bide. 

Where  beggars  vile  and  cripples  hide — 

And  e’en  though  God  thy  crime  forgive. 

On  earth,  a thing  accurs’d,  thou’lt  live  ! 
Martha.  Your  parting  soul  to  God  com- 
1 mend ; 

j Your  dying  breath  in  slander  will  you  spend  ? 
j Valentine.  Could  1 but  reach  thy  wither’d 
frame. 

Thou  wretched  beldame,  void  of  shame  ! 

Full  measure  I might  hope  to  win 
I Of  jiardon  tlien  for  every  sin. 

M.argaret.  Brother  ! what  agonizing  pain  ! 
Valentine.  I tell  thee ! from  vain  tears 
abstain  ! 

’Twas  thy  dishonor  pierc’d  my  heart. 

Thy  fall  the  fatal  death-stab  gave. 

Through  the  death-sleep  I now  depart 
To  God,  a soldier  true  and  brave.  \^Dies. 


Cathedral. 

Serzdce,  Organ  and  Anthem. 

I Margaret  amongst  a number  of  people. 
Evil-Spirit  behind  Margaret. 
Evil-Spirit.  How  different,  Gretchen,  was 
it  once  with  thee. 

When  thou,  still  full  of  innocence. 

Here  to  the  altar  earnest. 

And  from  the  small  and  well-conn’d  book 
Didst  lisp  thy  prayer, 
j Half  childish  sport, 


65 


Half  God  in  tliy  young  heart ! 

Gretclien  ! 

What  thouglits  are  thine? 

^Vl^at  deed  of  shame 
Lurks  in  thy  sinful  lieart  ? 

Is  tliy  prayer  utter’d  for  thy  mother’s  soul, 
Who  into  long,  long  torment  slept  through 
thee  ? 

Wliose  blood  is  on  tliy  threshold? 

— And  stirs  there  not  already  ’neath  thy  heart 
Another  quirk’ning  jndse,  that  even  now 
Tortures  itself  and  thee 
With  its  foreboding  presence? 


Maroaret.  Woe  ! woe  ! 

Oh.  could  I free  me  from  the  thoughts 
'I’hat  hither,  thither,  crowd  ui)on  my  brain, 
.\gainst  my  will  ! 

Chorus.  Dies  ircT,  dies  ilia, 

So/vet  sceclum  in  favilla. 

[ The  fli\i:;an  sounds. 

Evil-Spirit.  Grim  horror  seizes  thee! 

The  trumpet  sounds  ! 
d'he  graves  are  shaken  ! 

And  thy  heart 
From  ashy  rest 
For  torturing  flames 


66 


Anew  created, 

'I'l-einbles  into  life  ! 

Margaret.  Would  I were  hence  ! 

It  is  as  if  the  organ 
Chok’d  my  breath, 

As  if  the  choir 
Melted  my  inmost  heart  ! 

Chorus.  Judex  ergo  cuui  sede/u'f, 

Quidquid  lafct  adpai'eldf. 

Nil  inultum  remaue/df. 
Margaret.  I feel  opjjress’d  ! 

'I’he  ])illars  on  the  wall 
Imprison  me  ! 

'I'he  vaulted  roof 
Weighs  down  upon  me  ! — air  ! 
Evh.-Stirit.  Wouldst  hide  thee?  sin  and 
shame 

Remain  not  hidden  ! 

Air  ! light  ! 

Woe’s  thee  ! 

Chorus.  Quid  sum  7uiscr  luuc  diflurus  ? 

Quern  pati-oiium  rogetfurus  ! 

Cum  7'ix  jusfus  sit  seeurus. 
Evie-Si’Iri  i’.  'I'he  glorified  their  faces  turn 
Away  from  thee  ! 


Shudder  the  pure  to  reach 
Theii  hands  to  thee  ! 

Woe  ! 

Chorus.  Quid  sum  miser  tune  diflurus. — 
Margaret.  Neighbor ! your  smelling 
bottle  ! \_She  s7aoo/is  ci7oay. 


WALPURGIS-NIGHT. 

'I'he  IIartz  Mountains. 

Dislrifl  of  Schierkc  and  F.leud. 

Faust  and  Methistothei.es. 

Methis.  a broomstick  dost  thou  not  at 
least  desire? 

'I'he  roughest  he-goat  fain  would  I bestride, 
l!y  this  road  from  our  goal  we’re  still  far  wide. 
h'AUST.  W’hile  fresh  upon  my  legs,  so  long 
I naught  reipiire. 

Except  this  knotty  staff.  Beside, 

What  boots  it  to  abridge  a jileasant  way? 
Along  the  labyrinth  of  these  vales  to  creeji, 

67 


Then  scale  these  rocks,  whence,  in  eternal 
spray, 

Adown  the  cliffs  the  silvery  fountains  leap: 
Such  is  the  joy  that  seasons  paths  like  these  ! 
Spring  weaves  already  in  the  birchen  trees; 
E’en  the  late  pine-grove  feels  her  quickening 
powers ; 

Should  she  not  work  within  these  limbs  of 
ours? 

Mephis.  Naught  of  this  genial  influence  do 
I know ! 

Within  me  all  is  wintry.  Frost  and  snow 
I should  prefer  m\'  dismal  path  to  bound. 

How  sadly,  yonder,  with  belated  glow 
Rises  the  ruddy  moon’s  imperfedl  round. 
Shedding  so  faint  a light  at  every  tread 
One’s  .sure  to  stumble  ’gainst  a rock  or  tree  ! 
An  Ignis  Fatuus  I must  call  instead. 

Yonder  one  burning  merrily,  I see. 

Holla!  my  friend,  may  1 request  your  light? 
Why  should  you  flare  away  so  uselessly? 

Be  kind  enough  to  show  us  up  the  height  ! 
Ignis  F.a.tuus.  Through  reverence,  I hope 
I may  subdue 

'I'he  lightness  of  my  nature ; true. 

Our  course  is  but  a zigzag  one. 

Mephis.  Ho!  ho! 

So  man,  forsooth,  he  thinks  to  imitate  ! 

Now,  in  the  devil’s  name,  for  once  go  straight, 
Ur  out  at  once  your  flickering  life  I’ll  blow! 
Ignis  Fatuus.  That  you  are  master  here  is 
obvious  quite ; 

To  do  your  will,  I’ll  cordially  essay; 

Only  refledl  ! The  hill  is  magic-mad  to-night; 
And  if  to  show  the  jiath  you  choose  a meteor’s 
light. 

You  must  not  wonder  should  we  go  astray. 
Faust,  Mephistopheles,  Ignis  Fatuus. 

[/«  alternate  song. 

Through  this  dream  and  magic-sjihere, 

Fead  us  on,  thou  flickering  guide. 

Pilot  well  our  bold  career  ! 

'I'hat  we  may  with  onward  stride 
(lain  yon  vast  and  desert  waste  ! 

See  how  tree  on  tree  with  haste 
Rush  amain,  the  granite  blocks 
Make  obeisance  as  they  go  ! 

Hark  ! the  grim,  long-snouted  rocks. 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow  ! 

Brook  and  brooklet  hurrying  flow 
'Hiroiigh  the  turf  and  stones  along  ; 

Hark,  the  rustling  ! Hark,  the  song  ! 
Hearken  to  love’s  plaintive  lays; 


Voices  of  those  heavenly  days — 

W’hat  we  hope,  and  what  we  love  ! 

Fike  the  song  of  olden  time. 

Echo’s  voice  repeats  the  chime. 

To-whit  ! 'I’o-whoo  ! It  sounds  more  near ; 
Pewit,  owl,  and  jay  appear. 

All  awake,  around,  above  ! 

Paunchy  salamanders  too 

Crawl,  long-limbed,  the  bushes  through  ! 

1 And,  like  snakes,  the  roots  of  trees 
^ Coil  themselves  from  rock  and  sand. 
Stretching  many  a wondrous  band. 

Us  to  frighten,  us  to  seize; 

I From  rude  knots  with  life  embued, 

I Polyp-fangs  abroad  they  spread, 

: 'I'o  snare  the  wanderer!  ’Neath  our  tread. 
Mice,  in  myriads,  thousand-hued. 

Through  the  heath  and  through  the  moss ! 

■And  the  fire-flies’  glittering  throng, 

Wildering  escort,  whirls  along. 

Here  and  there,  our  path  across. 

i 

Tell  me,  stand  we  motionless. 

Or  still  forward  do  we  press? 

All  things  round  us  whirl  and  fly. 

Rocks  and  trees  make  strange  grimaces. 
Dazzling  meteors  change  their  places. 

How  they  puff  and  multiply  ! 
j Mephis.  Now  grasp  my  doublet — we  at  last 
Have  reached  a central  precipice. 

Whence  we  a wondering  glance  may  cast. 

How  Mammon  lights  the  dark  abyss. 

Faust.  How  through  the  chasms  strangely 
gleams, 

' A lurid  light,  like  dawn’s  red  glow. 

Pervading  with  its  quivering  beams. 

The  gorges  of  the  gulf  below ! 

' 'I'here  vapors  rise,  there  clouds  float  by. 

And  here  through  mist  the  splendor  shines; 
Now,  like  a fount,  it  bursts  on  high. 

Now  glideth  on  in  slender  lines; 

Far-ieaching,  with  a hundred  veins. 

Through  the  far  valley  see  it  glide. 

Here,  "where  the  gorge  the  flood  restrains. 

At  once  it  scatters  far  and  wide; 

Anear,  like  showers  of  golden  sand 
Strewn  broadcast,  sputter  sjiarks  of  light: 

And  mark  yon  rocky  walls  that  stand 
Ablaze,  in  all  their  towering  height ! 

Mephis.  Sir  Mammon  for  this  festival. 
Grandly  illumes  his  palace  hall ! 

To  see  it  was  a lucky  chance; 

E’en  now  the  boist’rous  guests  advance. 

Faust.  How  the  fierce  tempest  sweeps 
around  ! 

Upon  my  neck  it  strikes  with  sudden  shock! 


68 


Mephis.  Cling  to  these  ancient  ribs  of 
granite  rock, 

Else  it  will  hurl  you  down  to  yon  abyss  pro- 
found. 

A murky  vapor  thickens  night. 

Hark ! Through  the  woods  the  tempests 
roar ! 

The  owlets  flit  in  wild  affright. 

Split  are  the  columns  that  upbore 
d'he  leafy  palace,  green  for  aye : 

'File  shiver’d  branches  whirr  and  sigh. 

Yawn  the  huge  trunks  with  mighty  groan, 

'Fhe  roots,  upriven,  creak  and  moan! 

In  fearful  and  entangled  fall. 

One  crashing  ruin  whelms  them  all. 

While  through  the  desolate  abyss. 

Sweeping  the  wreck-strown  precipice. 

The  raging  storm-blasts  howl  and  hiss ! 

Hear’st  thou  voices  sounding  clear. 

Distant  now  and  now  more  near? 

Hark!  the  mountain  ridge  along, 

Streameth  a raving  magic-song ! 

Witches.  (In  chorus.)  Now  to  the  Brocken 
the  witches  hie. 

The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green ; 
Thither  the  gathering  legions  fly. 

And  sitting  aloft  is  Sir  Urian  seen : 

O’er  stick  and  o’er  stone  they  go  whirling 
along. 

Witches  and  he-goats,  a motley  throng. 

Voices.  Alone  old  Baubo’s  coming  now; 
She  rides  upon  a farrow  sow. 

Chorus.  Honor  to  her,  to  whom  honor  is 
due ! 

Forward,  Dame  Baubo  ! Honor  to  you! 

.■V  goodly  sow  and  mother  thereon, 

'Fhe  whole  witch  chorus  follows  anon. 

Voice.  Which  way  didst  come? 

Voice.  O’er  Ilsenstein  ! 

'Fhere  I peep’d  in  an  owlet’s  nest. 

With  her  broad  eye  she  gazed  in  mine! 

Voice.  Drive  to  the  devil,  thou  hellish 
pest  ! 

Why  ride  so  hard  ? 

Voice.  She  has  graz’d  my  side; 

Look  at  the  wounds,  how  deep  and  how  wide! 
Witches.  ( In  chorus.)  The  way  is  broad, 
the  way  is  long; 

What  mad  pursuit ! What  tumult  wild  ! 
Scratches  the  besom  and  sticks  the  jirong ; 
Crush’d  is  the  mother,  and  stifled  the  child. 
Wizards.  (Half  chorus.)  Like  house- 
encumber’d  snail  we  creep; 

While  far  ahead  the  women  keep. 

For  when  to  the  devil’s  house  we  speed. 

By  a thousand  steps  they  take  the  lead. 


The  Other  Hai.f.  Not  so,  precisely  do 
we  view  it ; — 

They  with  a thousand  steps  may  do  it ; 

But  let  them  hasten  as  they  can. 

With  one  long  bound  ’tis  clear’d  by  man. 
Voices.  (Above.)  Come  with  us,  come 
with  us  from  Felsensee. 

Voices.  (Frombehm.)  Aloft  to  you  we 
would  mount  with  glee  ! 

We  wash,  and  free  from  all  stain  are  we. 

Yet  barren  evermore  must  be ! 

Both  Choruses.  The  wind  is  hush’d,  the 
stars  grow  pale. 

The  pensive  moon  her  light  doth  veil; 

And  whirling  on,  the  magic  choir. 

Sputter  forth  sparks  of  drizzling  fire. 

Vi^iCE.  (From  below.)  Stay!  stay! 
Voice.  (From  above.)  What  voice  of 
woe 

Calls  from  the  cavern’d  depths  below? 

Voice.  ( From  below.)  Take  me  with  you  ! 
Oh  take  me  too  ! 

Three  centuries  I climb  in  vain. 

And  yet  can  ne’er  the  summit  gain  ! 

To  be  with  my  kindred  I am  firin. 

Both  Choruses.  Broom  and  pitchfork, 
goat  and  prong. 

Mounted  on  these  we  whirl  along; 

Who  vainly  strives  to  climb  to-night. 

Is  evermore  a luckless  wight ! 

Demi-Witch.  (Below.)  I hobble  after, 
many  a day ; 

Already  the  others  are  far  away! 

No  rest  at  home  can  I obtain — 

Here  too  my  efforts  are  in  vain  ! 

Chorus  of  Witches.  .Salve  gives  the 
witches  strength  to  rise ; 

A rag  for  a sail  does  well  enough; 

A goodly  ship  is  every  trough ; 

To-night  who  flies  not,  never  flies. 

Both  Choruses.  And  when  the  topmost 
peak  we  round. 

Then  alight  ye  on  the  ground ; 

'Fhe  heath’s  wide  regions  cover  ye 
With  your  mad  swarms  of  witchery! 

[ They  let  themselves  (hnvn. 
Mephis.  'Fhey  crowd  and  jostle,  whirl  and 
flutter  ! 

'Fhey  whisper,  liabble,  twirl  and  splutter  ! 
They  glimmer,  sparkle,  stink  and  flare — 

A true  witch-element ! Beware  ! 

Stick  close  ! else  we  shall  sever’d  be. 

Where  art  thou  ? 

Faust.  (In  the  distance.)  Here! 

Mephis.  Already  whirl’d  so  far  away  ! 
'Fhe  master  then  indeed  I needs  must  play. 


69 


Give  ground  ! Squire  Voland  comes  ! Sweet 
folk,  give  ground  ! 

Here,  dodtor,  grasp  me  ! With  a single  bound 
Let  us  escape  this  ceaseless  jar  ; 

Even  for  me  too  mad  these  people  are. 

Hard  by  there  shineth  something  with  peculiar 
glare. 

Von  brake  allureth  me;  it  is  not  far; 

Come,  come  along  with  me!  we’ll  slip  in 
there. 

Faust.  Spirit  of  contradidfion  ! Lead  ! 
I’ll  follow  straight  ! 

’Twas  wisely  done,  however,  to  repair 
On  May-night  to  the  Brocken,  and  when 
there. 

By  our  own  choice  ourselves  to  isolate  1 

Mephis.  Mark,  of  those  flames  the  motley 
glare ! 

merry  club  assembles  there. 

In  a small  circle  one  is  not  alone. 

Faust.  I’d  rather  be  above,  though,  I 
must  own  ! 

.\lready  fire  and  eddying  smoke  I view  ; 

The  impetuous  millions  to  the  devil  ride ; 

Full  many  a riddle  will  be  there  untied. 

Mephis.  Ay  ! and  full  many  a one  be  tied 
anew. 

But  let  the  great  world  rave  and  riot  I 
Here  will  we  house  ourselves  in  quiet.  ' 

.\  custom  ’tis  of  ancient  date. 

Our  lesser  worlds  within  the  great  world  to 
create  I 

Young  witches  there  I see,  naked  and  bare. 
And  old  ones,  veil’d  more  prudently. 

For  my  sake  only  courteous  be  ! 

The  trouble’s  small,  the  sport  is  rare. 

Of  instruments  I hear  the  cursed  din — 

One  must  get  used  to  it.  Come  in  I come  in  ! 
There’s  now  no  help  for  it.  I’ll  step  before, 
.\nd  introducing  you  as  my  good  friend. 
Confer  on  you  one  obligation  more. 

How  say  you  now  ? ’Tis  no  such  paltry  room  ; 
W'hy  only  look,  you  scarce  can  see  the  end. 

A hundred  fires  in  rows  disperse  the  gloom  ; 
They  dance,  they  talk,  they  cook,  make  love 
and  drink  : 

Where  could  we  find  aught  better,  do  you 
think  ? 

Faust.  To  introduce  us,  do  you  purpose 
here 

As  devil  or  as  wizard  to  appear  ? 

Mephis.  Though  I am  wont  indeed  to 
stridl  incognito. 

Yet  ipion  gala-days  one  must  one’s  orders 
show. 

No  garter  have  I to  distinguish  me. 


! Nathless  the  cloven  foot  doth  here  give  dignity. 

Seest  thou  yonder  snail?  Crawling  this  way 
i she  hies ; 

With  searching  feelers,  she,  no  doubt, 
j Hath  me  already  scented  out ; 

Here,  even  if  I would,  for  me  there’s  no  dis- 
guise. 

From  fire  to  fire,  we’ll  .saunter  at  our  leisure. 
The  gallant  you.  I’ll  cater  for  your  pleasure. 

( To  a party  seated  round  some  expiring  em- 
bers. ) 

Old  gentlemen,  apart,  why  sit  ye  moping  here  ? 
Ye  in  the  midst  should  be  of  all  this  jovial 
cheer. 

Girt  round  with  noise  and  youthful  riot  ; 

At  home  one  surely  has  enough  of  quiet. 

General.  In  nations  put  his  trust  who  may, 
Whate’er  for  them  one  may  have  done ; 

The  people  are  like  women,  they 
Honor  your  rising  stars  alone  ! 

Minister.  Too  far  from  truth  and  right 
they  wander  now ; 

I must  extol  the  good  old  ways, 

! For  truly  when  all  spoke  our  praise. 

Then  was  the  golden  age,  I trow. 

Parvenu.  Ne’er  were  we  ’mong  your  dul- 
lards found. 

And  what  we  ought  not,  that  we  did  of  old  ; 

I Yet  now  are  all  things  turning  round. 

Just  when  we  most  desired  them  fast  to  hold. 
Author.  Who,  as  a rule,  a treatise  now' 
would  care 

To  read,  of  even  moderate  sense? 

As  for  the  rising  generation,  ne’er 

Has  youth  disjfiayed  such  arrogant  pretence. 

Mephis.  (Suddenly  appearing  very  old.) 
Since  for  the  last  time  I the  Brocken  scale. 
That  folk  are  ripe  for  doomsday,  now'  one  sees  ; 
And  just  because  my  cask  begins  to  fail. 

So  the  whole  w'orld  is  also  on  the  lees, 
j Huckster-Witch.  Stop,  gentlemen,  nor 
I pass  me  by. 

Of  wares  I have  a choice  colledtion  ; 

Pray  honor  them  with  your  inspedlion. 

Lose  not  this  opportunity! 

No  fellow  to  my  booth  you’ll  find 

On  earth,  for  ’mong  my  store  there’s  naught, 

Which  to  the  world,  and  to  mankind. 

Hath  not  some  direful  mischief  wrought. 

1 No  dagger  here  which  hath  not  flow’d  with 
■ blood. 

No  bowl  which  hath  not  pour’d  into  some 
healthy  frame 

Hot  poison’s  life-consuming  flood, 

I No  trinket,  but  hath  wrought  some  w'oman’s 
I shame. 


70 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUS'r.  FIRST  PART. 


WALPUKGIS  NIGHT. 


No  weapon  but  hath  cut  some  sacred  tie, 

Or  from  behind  hath  stabb’d  an  enemy. 

Mephis.  Gossip  ! For  wares  like  these 
the  time’s  gone  by. 

What’s  done  is  past  ! what’s  past  is  done  ! 
With  novelties  your  booth  supply; 

Now  novelties  attradl  alone. 

Faust.  May  this  wild  scene  my  senses  spare  ! 
This,  may  in  truth  be  call’d  a fair  ! 

Mephis.  Upward  the  eddying  concourse 
throng ; 

Thinking  to  push,  thyself  art  push’d  along. 
Faust.  Who’s  that,  pray? 

Mephis.  Mark  her  well!  That’s  Lilith. 
Faust.  Who? 

^{EPHIS.  Adam’s  first  wife.  Of  her  rich 
locks  beware  ! 

That  charm  in  which  she’s  parallel’d  by  few; 
When  in  its  toils  a youth  she  doth  ensnare. 

He  will  not  soon  escape,  I promise  you. 
Faust.  There  sit  a pair,  the  old  one  with 
the  young ; 

.\lready  they  have  bravely  danced  and  sprung  ! 

Mephis.  Here  there  is  no  repose  to-day. 
.\nother  dance  begins;  we’ll  join  it,  come 
away ! 

Faust.  (Dancing  with  the  yotmg  one.) 
Once  a fair  vision  came  to  me  ; 

Therein  I saw  an  apple  tree. 

Two  beauteous  apples  charm’d  mine  eyes; 

I climb’d  forthwith  to  reach  the  prize. 

The  Fair  One.  Apples  still  fondly  ye  de- 
sire. 

From  paradise  it  hath  been  so. 

Feelings  of  joy  my  breast  inspire 
That  such  too  in  my  garden  grow. 

Mephis.  ( IViih  the  old  one.)  Once  a 
weird  vision  came  to  me  ; 

Therein  I saw  a rifted  tree. 

It  had  a ; 

But  as  it  was  it  pleas’d  me  too. 

The  Old  One.  I beg  most  humbly  to 
salute 

The  gallant  with  the  cloven  foot  ! 

Let  him  a . . . have  ready  here. 

If  he  a . . . does  not  fear. 

Pkoctophantasmist.  Accursed  mob ! How 
dare  ye  thus  to  meet  ? 

Have  I not  shown  and  demonstrated  too. 

That  ghosts  stand  not  on  ordinary  feet? 

Yet  here  ye  dance,  as  other  mortals  do  I 

The  Fair  One.  (Dancing.)  Then  at  our 
ball,  what  doth  he  here? 

Faust.  (Dancing.)  Oh!  He  must  every- 
where appear. 

He  must  adjudge,  when  others  dance  ; 


If  on  each  step  his  say’s  not  said. 

So  is  that  step  as  good  as  never  made. 

He’s  most  annoy’d,  so  soon  as  we  advance ; 

If  ye  would  circle  in  one  narrow  round. 

As  he  in  his  old  mill,  then  doubtless  he 
Your  dancing  would  approve, — especially 
If  ye  forthwith  salute  him  with  respt'61  pro- 
found ! 

Pkoctophantasmist.  Still  here  ! what  ar- 
rogance ! unheard  of  quite  ! 

Vanish ; we  now  have  fill’d  the  world  with 
light  ! 

Laws  are  unheeded  by  the  devil’s  host ; 

Wise  as  we  are,  yet  Tegel  hath  its  ghost  ! 

How  long  at  this  conceit  I’ve  swept  with  all 
my  might. 

Lost  is  the  labor:  ’tis  unheard  of  quite  ! 

The  Fair  One.  Cease  here  to  teaze  us  any 
more,  I pray. 

Proctophantasmist.  Spirits,  I plainly  to 
your  face  declare : 

No  spiritual  control  myself  will  bear. 

Since  my  own  spirit  can  exert  no  sway. 

\^The  dancing  continues. 
To-night,  I see,  I shall  in  naught  succeed  ; 

But  I’m  prepar’d  my  travels  to  pursue. 

And  hope,  before  my  final  step  indeed. 

To  triumph  over  bards  and  devils  too. 

Mephis.  Now  in  some  puddle  will  he  take 
his  station. 

Such  is  his  mode  of  seeking  consolation  ; 
Where  leeches,  feasting  on  his  blood,  will 
drain 

Spirit  and  spirits  from  his  haunted  brain. 

(To  Faust,  who  has  left  the  dance.) 

But  why  the  charming  damsel  leave,  I pray. 
Who  to  you  in  the  dance  so  sweetly  sang? 

Faust.  Ah  ! in  the  very  middle  of  her  lay. 
Out  of  her  mouth  a small  red  mouse  there 
sprang. 

Mephis.  Suppose  there  did  ! One  must  not 
be  too  nice  : 

’Twas  well  it  was  not  gray,  let  that  suffice. 
Who  ’mid  his  pleasures  for  a trifle  cares? 
Faust.  Then  saw  I — 

Mephis.  What? 

Faust.  Mephisto,  seest  thou  there 

Standing  far  off,  a lone  child,  pale  and  fair? 
Slow  from  the  spot  her  drooping  form  she 
tears. 

And  seems  with  shackled  feet  to  move  along  ; 
I own,  within  me  the  delusion’s  strong. 

That  she  the  likeness  of  my  Gretchen  wears. 
Mephis.  Gaze  not  upon  her!  ’Tis  not 
good  ! Forbear  ! 

’Tis  lifeless,  magical,  a shape  of  air. 


An  idol.  Such  to  meet  with,  bodes  no 
good ; 

That  rigid  look  of  hers  doth  freeze  man’s 
blood, 

And  well-nigh  petrifies  his  heart  to  stone;  — 

The  story  of  Medusa  thou  hast  known. 

F.<vust.  Ay,  verily ! a corp.se’s  eyes  are 
those. 

Which  there  was  no  fond  loving  hand  to  close. 

'I'hat  is  the  bosom  I so  fondly  press’d, 

'I'hat  my  sweet  Gretchen’s  form,  so  oft  caress’d  ! 

Mephis.  Deluded  fool!  ’Tis  magic,  I de- 
clare ! 

To  each  she  doth  his  lov’d  one’s  image  wear. 

Faust.  What  bliss ! what  torture  ! vainly 
I essay 

To  turn  me  from  that  piteous  look  away. 

How  strangely  doth  a single  crimson  line 

Around  that  lovely  neck  its  coil  entwine. 

It  shows  no  broader  than  a knife’s  blunt  edge ! 


I Mephis.  Quite  right.  I see  it  also,  and 
allege 

That  she  beneath  her  arm  her  head  can  bear. 
Since  Perseus  cut  it  off. — But  you  I swear 
Are  craving  for  illusion  still  ! 

Come  then,  ascend  yon  little  hill ! 

As  on  the  Prater  all  is  gay. 

And  if  my  senses  are  not  gone, 

I see  a theatre, — what’s  going  on  ? 

Servibilis.  They  are  about  to  recommence ; 
— the  play 

Will  be  the  last  of  seven,  and  spick-span  new — 
’Tis  usual  here  that  number  to  present — 

A dilettante  did  the  piece  invent. 

And  dilettanti  will  ena6l  it  too. 

Excuse  me,  gentlemen;  to  me’s  assign’d 
As  dilettante  to  uplift  the  curtain. 

Mephis.  You  on  the  Blocksberg  I’m  re- 
joic’d to  find. 

That  ’tis  your  most  appropriate  sphere  is  certain. 


72 


Dl^BAM 


OBKRON  AND  TITANIA’S 


Golden  ttlSDDiNG  Peasoi 


INTERMEZZO. 


'1’heatre. 

Manager.  Vales,  where  mists  still  shift  and 
play, 

'I'o  ancient  hill  succeeding, — 

These  our  scenes; — so  we,  to-day. 

May  rest,  brave  sons  of  Mieding. 
Herald,  d’hat  the  marriage  golden  be. 

Must  fifty  years  be  ended  ; 

More  dear  this  feast  of  gold  to  me. 
Contention  now  suspended. 

Oberon.  Spirits,  are  ye  hovering  near, 

Show  yourselves  around  us  ! 

King  and  queen  behold  ye  here. 

Love  hath  newly  bound  us. 


Puck.  Puck  draws  near  and  wheels  about. 
In  mazy  circles  dancing  ! 

Hundreds  swell  his  joyous  shout. 

Behind  him  still  advancing. 

Ariel.  Ariel  wakes  his  dainty  air. 

His  lyre  celestial  stringing; 

Fools  he  lureth,  and  the  fair. 

With  his  celestial  singing. 

Oberon.  Wedded  ones,  would  ye  agree, 
We  court  your  imitation  : 

Would  ye  fondly  love  as  we. 

We  counsel  separation. 

Thania.  If  husband  scold  and  wife  retort, 
d'hen  bear  them  far  asunder; 


73 


Her  to  the  burning  South  transport, 

And  him  tire  North  Pole  under. 

The  Whole  Orchestra.  (Fortissimo.) 
Flies  and  midges  all  unite 

With  frog  and  chirping  cricket, 

Our  orchestra  throughout  the  night. 
Resounding  in  the  thicket ! 

(Solo.) 

Yonder  doth  the  bagpipe  come! 

Its  sack  an  airy  bubble. 

Schnick,  schnick,  schnack,  with  nasal  hum. 
Its  notes  it  doth  redouble. 

Embryo  Spirit.  Spider’s  foot  and  midge’s 
wing, 

A toad  in  form  and  feature ; 

Together  verses  it  can  string. 

Though  scarce  a living  creature. 

A Little  Pair.  Tiny  step  and  lofty  bound. 
Through  dew  and  exhalation  ; 

Ye  trip  it  deftly  on  the  ground. 

But  gain  no  elevation. 

Inquisitive  'I'raveller.  Can  I indeed  be- 
lieve my  eyes? 

Is’t  not  mere  masquerading? 

What ! Oberon  in  beauteous  guise. 

Among  the  groups  parading! 

Orthodox.  No  claws,  no  tail  to  whisk  about, 
'Po  fright  us  at  our  revel ; — 

Yet  like  the  gods  of  Greece,  no  doubt. 

He  too’s  a genuine  devil. 

Northern  Artist.  These  that  I’m  hitting 
off  to-day 

Are  sketches  unpretending ; 

Towards  Italy  without  delay. 

My  steps  I think  of  bending. 

Purist.  Alas!  ill-fortune  leads  me  here. 
Where  riot  still  grows  louder ; 

And  ’mong  the  witches  gather’d  here. 

But  two  alone  wear  powder  ! 

Young  Witch.  Your  powder  and  your  petti- 
coat 

Suit  hags,  there’s  no  gainsaying; 

Hence  I sit  fearless  on  my  goat. 

My  naked  charms  displaying. 

Matron.  We’re  too  well-bred  tosquabble  here. 
Or  insult  back  to  render; 

But  may  you  wither  soon,  my  dear. 
Although  so  young  and  tender. 

Leader  of  the  Band.  Nose  of  fly  and  gnat’s 
proboscis. 

Throng  not  the  naked  beauty  ! 

Frogs  and  crickets  in  the  mosses. 

Keep  time  and  do  your  duty ! 


Weathercock.  (Tounirds  one  side.) 

What  charming  company  I view 
'Pogether  here  colledled  ! 

Gay  bachelors,  a hopeful  crew. 

And  brides  so  unaffedfed  ! 

Wea  thercock.  ( Towards  the  other  side.) 

Unless  indeed  the  yawning  ground 
Should  open  to  receive  them, 

From  this  vile  crew,  with  sudden  bound. 

To  hell  I’d  jump  and  leave  them. 

Xenien.  With  small  sharp  shears,  in  insedi 
guise, 

Behold  us  at  your  revel ! 

That  we  may  tender,  filial-wise, 

Our  homage  to  the  devil. 

Hennings.  Look  now  at  yonder  eager  crew. 
How  naively  they’re  jesting ! 

That  they  have  tender  hearts  and  true. 
They  stoutly  keep  protesting! 

Musaget.  One’s  self  amid  this  witchery 
How  pleasantly  one  loses; 

For  witches  easier  are  to  me 
To  govern  than  the  Muses ! 

Ci-Devant  Genius  of  the  Age. 

^Vith  proper  folks  when  we  appear. 

No  one  can  then  surpass  us ! 

Keep  close,  wide  is  the  Blocksberg  here 
As  Germany’s  Parnassus. 

Inquisitive  'I'raveller.  How  name  ye  that 
stiff  formal  man. 

Who  strides  with  lofty  paces? 

He  tracks  the  game  where’er  he  can, 

“ He  scents  the  Jesuits’  traces.” 

Crane.  Wiiere  waters  troubled  are  or  clear. 
To  fish  I am  delighted  ; 

Thus  pious  gentlemen  appear 
With  devils  here  united. 

Worldling.  By  pious  people,  it  is  true. 

No  medium  is  rejedted  ; 

Conventicles,  and  not  a few. 

On  Blocksberg  are  eredled. 

Dancer.  Another  choir  is  drawing  nigh. 

Far  off  the  drums  are  beating. 

Be  still ! ’tis  but  the  bittern’s  cry. 

Its  changeless  note  repeating. 

Dancing  Master.  Each  twirls  about  and 
never  stops. 

And  as  he  can  advances. 

The  crooked  leaps,  the  clumsy  hops. 

Nor  careth  how  he  dances. 

Fiddler.  'Po  take  each  other’s  life,  I trow, 
M’ould  cordially  delight  them  ! 

As  Orpheus’  lyre  the  beasts,  so  now 
The  bagpipe  doth  unite  them. 


74 


Dogmatist.  My  views,  in  spite  of  doubt  and 
sneer, 

I hold  with  stout  persistence. 

Inferring  from  the  devils  here. 

The  evil  one’s  existence. 

Idealist.  My  every  sense  rules  Phantasy 
With  sway  quite  too  potential; 

Sure  I’m  demented  if  the  I 
Alone  is  the  essential. 

Realist.  This  entity’s  a dreadful  bore. 

And  cannot  choose  but  vex  me ; 

The  ground  beneath  me  ne’er  before 
Thus  totter’d  to  perplex  me. 

Supernaturalist.  Well  pleas’d  assembled 
here  I view 

Of  spirits  this  profusion  ; 

From  devils,  touching  angels  too, 

I gather  some  conclusion. 

Sceptic.  The  ignis  fatuus  they  track  out. 

And  think  they’re  near  the  treasure. 

Devil  alliterates  with  doubt. 

Here  I abide  with  pleasure. 

Leader  of  the  Band.  P'rog  and  cricket  in 
the  mosses, — 

Confound  your  gasconading! 

Nose  of  fly  and  gnat’s  proboscis; — 

Most  tuneful  serenading! 

The  Knowing  One.s.  Sans-souci,  so  this  host 
we  greet. 

Their  jovial  humor  showing; 

There’s  now  no  walking  on  our  feet. 

So  on  our  heads  we’re  going. 


'Phe  Awkward  Ones.  In  .seasons  past  we 
snatch’d,  ’tis  true. 

Some  titbits  by  our  cunning; 

Our  shoes,  alas,  are  now  danc’d  through. 
On  our  bare  soles  we’re  running. 
WiLL-o’-THE-Wisps.  From  marshy  bogs  we 
sprang  to  light, 

Yet  here  behold  us  dancing; 

The  gayest  gallants  of  the  night. 

In  glitt’ring  rows  advancing. 

Shooting  Star.  With  rapid  motion  from  on 
high, 

I shot  in  starry  splendor; 

Now  prostrate  on  the  grass  I lie; — 

WTo  aid  will  kindly  render? 

The  Massive  Ones.  Room  ! wheel  round  ! 
The)’’re  coming  ! lo  ! 

Down  sink  the  bending  grasses. 

Though  sjiirits,  yet  their  limbs,  we  know. 
Are  huge  substantial  masses. 

Puck.  Don’t  stamp  so  heavily,  I pray; 

Like  elephants  you’re  treading! 

And  ’mong  the  elves  be  Puck  to-day. 

The  stoutest  at  the  wedding ! 

.\riel.  If  nature  boon,  or  subtle  sprite. 
Endow  your  soul  with  pinions;- — 

Then  follow  to  yon  rosy  height, 
d'hrough  ether’s  calm  dominions. 
Orchestra.  ( Pia/nssimo. ) Drifting  cloud 

and  misty  wreathes 
Are  fill’d  with  light  elysian ; 

O’er  reed  and  leaf  the  zephyr  breathes — 

So  fades  the  fairy  vision  ! 


75 


A Gloomy  Day. 

A riain. 
Faust  and  Me- 

PHISTOPHELES. 

Faust. 

I N misery ! despairing ! 
long  wandering  piti- 
fully on  the  face  of 
ihe  earth  and  now  imprisoned  ! This  gentle 
hapless  creature,  immured  in  the  dungeon  as 
a malefadlor  and  reserved  for  horrid  tortures ! 
That  it  should  come  to  this  ! To  this ! — Per- 
fidious, worthless  spirit,  and  this  thou  hast 
concealed  from  me! — Stand!  ay,  stand!  roll 
in  malicious  rage  thy  fiendish  eyes!  Stand 
and  brave  me  with  thine  insupjiortable  })res- 
ence  ! Imjirisoned  ! In  hopeless  misery  ! 
Delivered  over  to  the  jiower  of  evil  sjhrits  and 
the  judgment  of  unpitying  humanity! — And 
me,  the  while,  thou  wert  lulling  with  tasteless 
dissipations,  concealing  from  me  her  growing 
anguish,  and  leaving  her  to  perish  without 
help  ! 

Mephis.  She  is  not  the  first. 

Faust.  Hound  ! Execrable  monster  ! — 
Back  with  him,  oh  thou  infinite  spirit ! back 
with  the  rejitile  into  his  dog’s  shape,  in  which 
it  was  his'  wont  to  scamper  before  me  at  even- 
tide, to  roll  before  the  feet  of  the  harmless 
wanderer,  and  to  fasten  on  his  shoulders  when 
he  fell ! Change  him  again  into  his  favorite 
shape,  that  he  may  crouch  on  his  belly  before 
me  in  the  dust,  whilst  I spurn  him  with  my 
foot,  the  reprobate  ! — Not  the  first ! — Woe  ! 


woe  ! By  no  human  soul  is  it  con- 
ceivable, that  more  than  one  human 
creature  has  ever  sunk  into  a depth 
of  wretchedness  like  this,  or  that 
the  first  in  her  writhing  death-agony  should 
not  have  atoned  in  the  sight  of  all-pardon- 
ing Heaven  for  the  guilt  of  all  the  rest ! The 
misery  of  this  one  pierces  me  to  the  very 
marrow,  and  harrows  up  my  soul ; thou  art 
grinning  calmly  over  the  doom  of  thousands  ! 

Mephis.  Now  we  are  once  again  at  onr 
wit’s  end,  just  where  the  reason  of  you  mortals 
snaps ! Why  dost  thou  seek  our  fellowship, 
if  thou  canst  not  go  through  with  it  ? Wilt 
fly,  and  art  not  proof  against  dizziness?  Did 
we  force  ourselves  on  thee,  or  thou  on  us? 

Faust.  Cease  thus  to  gnash  thy  ravenous 
fangs  at  me  ! I loathe  thee  ! — Great  and  glo- 
rious spirit,  thou  who  didst  vouchsafe  to  reveal 
thyself  unto  me,  thou  who  dost  know  my  very 
heart  and  soul,  why  hast  thou  linked  me  with 
this  base  associate,  who  feeds  on  mischief  and 
revels  in  destrudlion  ? 

Mephis.  Hast  done? 

Faust.  Save  her  ! — or  woe  to  thee  ! The 
direst  of  curses  on  thee  for  thousands  of  years ! 

Mephis.  I cannot  loose  the  bands  of  the 
avenger,  nor  withdraw  his  bolts. — Save  her  !■ — 
M’ho  was  it  plunged  her  into  perdition  ? I or 
thou  ? [Faust  looks  wildly  around. 

Mephis.  Wouldst  grasp  the  thunder? 
Well  for  you,  poor  mortals,  that  ’tis  not 
yours  to  wield ! To  smite  to  atoms  the  being, 
however  innocent,  who  obstrudls  his  path,  such 
is  the  tyrant’s  fashion  of  relieving  himself  in 
difficulties  ! 

Faust.  Convey  me  thither  ! She  shall  be 
free  ! 

Mephis.  And  the  danger  to  which  thou 
dost  expose  thyself!  Know,  the  guilt  of 
blood,  shed  by  thy  hand,  lies  yet  upon  the 
town.  Over  the  place  where  fell  the  murdered 


76 


one,  avenging  spirits  hover  and  watch  for  the 
returning  murderer. 

Faust.  This  too  from  thee?  The  death 
and  downfall  of  a world  be  on  thee,  monster ! 
Condudl  me  thither,  I say,  and  set  her  free ! 

Mephis.  I will  condudl  thee.  And  what 
I can  do, — hear ! Have  I all  power  in  heaven 
and  upon  earth?  I’ll  cloud  the  senses  of  the 
warder, — do  thou  possess  thyself  of  the  keys 
and  lead  her  forth  with  human  hand  ! I will 
keep  watch ! The  magic  steeds  are-  waiting, 
I bear  thee  off.  Thus  much  is  in  my  power. 

Faust.  Up  and  away! 


Night.  Open  country. 

Faust.  Mephistopheles. 

(Rushing  along  on  black  horses.) 

Faust.  What  weave  they  yonder  round 
the  Ravenstone? 

Mephis.  I know  not  what  they  shape  and 
brew. 

Faust.  They’re  soaring,  swooping,  bend- 
ing, stooping. 

Mephis.  A witches’  pack. 

Faust.  They  charm,  they  strew. 

Mephis.  On  ! on  ! 


Dungeon. 

Faust.  ( With  a bunch  of  keys  and  a lamp 
before  a small  iron  door.)  A fear  un- 
wonted o’er  my  spirit  falls; 

Man’s  concentrated  woe  o’erwhelms  me  here  ! 

She  dwells  immur’d  within  these  dripping 
walls ; 

Her  only  trespass  a delusion  dear  ! 

Thou  lingerest  at  the  fatal  door? 

Thou  dread’st  to  see  her  face  once  more  ? 

On  ! While  thou  dalliest,  draws  her  death- 
hour  near. 

[^He  seizes  the  lock.  Margaret  singing  within. 
My  mother,  the  harlot. 

She  took  me  and  slew  ! 

My  father,  the  scoundrel. 

Hath  eaten  me  too  ! 

My  sweet  little  sister 
Hath  all  my  bones  laid. 

Where  soft  breezes  whisper 
All  in  the  cool  shade  ! 

Then  became  I a wood-bird,  and  sang  on  the 
spray. 

Fly  away  ! little  bird,  fly  away  ! fly  away  ! 

Faust.  ( Opening  the  lock. ) Ah!  she  fore- 
bodes not  that  her  lover’s  near. 

The  clanking  chains,  the  rustling  straw,  to 
hear.  \^He  enters. 

Margaret.  ( Hiding  her  face  in  the  bed  of 
straw.)  Woe!  woe!  they  come ! oh  bit- 
ter ’tis  to  die  ! 


77 


1 


Faust.  (Softly.)  Hush!  hush!  be  still! 

I come  to  set  thee  free  ! 

Margaret.  ( Throwing  herself  at  his  feet.) 
[f  thou  art  human,  feel  my  misery  ! 

Faust.  Thou  wilt  awake  the  jailor  with  thy 
cry  ! 

\^He  grasps  the  chains  to  unlock  them. 
Margaret.  ( On  her  knees.)  Who,  heads- 
man, unto  thee  this  power 
O’er  me  could  give? 

Thou  com’st  for  me  at  midnight-hour. 

Be  merciful,  and  let  me  live  ! 

Is  morrow’s  dawn  not  time  enough? 

[6’//c  stands  up. 

I’m  still  so  young,  so  young — 

.•\nd  must  so  early  die  ! 

Fair  was  I too,  and  that  was  my  undoing. 

My  love  is  now  afar,  he  then  was  nigh  ; 

Torn  lies  the  garland,  the  fair  blossoms  strew’ d. 
Nay,  seize  me  not  with  hand  so  rude  ! 

Spare  me  ! What  harm  have  I e’er  done  to  thee  ? 
Oh,  let  me  not  in  vain  implore  ! 

I ne’er  have  seen  thee  in  my  life  before  ! 
F.vust.  Can  I endure  this  bitter  agony? 
Margaret.  I now  am  at  thy  merc\’  quite. 
Let  me  my  babe  but  suckle  once  again  ! 

I fondled  it  the  livelong  night ; 

'I'hey  took  it  from  me  but  to  give  me  pain. 
And  now  they  say  that  I my  child  have  slain. 
Gladness  I ne’er  again  shall  know. 

Then  they  sing  songs  about  me, — ’tis  wicked 
of  the  throng — 

.-\n  ancient  ballad  endeth  so  ; 

Who  bade  them  thus  apply  the  song? 

Faust.  ( Throwing  himself  on  the  ground.) 
.\  lover  at  thy  feet  bends  low, 
d'o  loose  the  bonds  of  wretchedness  and  woe. 

Margaret.  (^Throws  herself  beside  him.) 
Oh,  let  us  kneel  and  move  the  saints  by  prayer  ! 
Look  ! look  ! yon  stairs  below, 

Under  the  threshold  there. 

Hell’s  flames  are  all  aglow  ! 

Beneath  the  floor. 

With  hideous  noise. 

The  devils  roar  ! 

F.vust.  ^ Aloud.)  Gretchen  ! Gretchen  ! 
Margaret.  (Listening.)  That  was  my 
lov’d  one’s  voice  ! 

\^She  springs  up,  the  chains  fall  off. 
Where  is  he?  I heard  him  calling  me. 

Free  am  I ! There’s  none  shall  hinder  me. 

'To  his  neck  will  I fly, 

( )n  his  bosom  will  lie  ! 

Gretchen,  he  called! — On  yon  threshold  he 
stood  ; 

.\midst  all  the  howling  of  hell’s  fiery  flood. 


'I'he  scoff  and  the  scorn  of  its  devilish  crew. 
The  tones  of  his  voice,  sweet  and  loving,  I 
knew. 

Faust.  ’Tis  I. 

Margaret.  ’Tis  thou  ! O say  so  once 
again!  \_Embraci71g  hmi. 

’Tis  he!  ’tis  he!  where’s  now  the  torturing 
pain  ? 

Where  are  the  fetters?  where  the  dungeon’s 
gloom  ? 

’Tis  thou  ! To  save  me  thou  art  come  ! 

And  I am  sav’d  ! — 

.\lready  now  the  street  I see 

Where  the  first  time  I caught  a glimpse  of  thee. 

There  too  the  pleasant  garden  shade. 

Where  I and  Martha  for  thy  coming  stay’d. 

Faust.  (Endeavoring  to  lead  her  away.) 
Come  ! come  away  ! 

Margaret.  Oh,  do  not  haste  ! 

I love  to  linger  where  thou  stayest. 

\_Caressing  him. 
Faust.  Ah  haste  ! For  if  thou  still  de- 
layest. 

Our  lingering  we  shall  both  deplore. 

Margaret.  How,  dearest?  canst  thou  kiss 
no  more  ! 

So  short  a time  away  from  me,  and  yet. 

To  kiss  thou  couldst  so  soon  forget ! 

Why  on  thy  neck  so  anxious  do  I feel— 

When  formerly  a jrerfedl  heaven  of  bliss 
From  thy  dear  looks  and  words  would  o’er  me 
steal  ? 

As  thou  wouldst  stifle  me  thou  then  didst 
kiss  ! — 

Kiss  me  ! 

Or  I’ll  kiss  thee  ! [A/r<f  embraces  him. 

Woe  ! woe  ! Thy  lips  are  cold, — 

Are  dumb  ! 

I'hy  love  where  hast  thou  left? 

Who  hath  me  of  thy  love  bereft  ? 

\^She  turns  away  from  him. 
Faust.  Come  ! Follow  me,  my  dearest 
love,  be  bold  ! 

I’ll  cherish  thee  with  ardor  thousand-fold  ; 

I but  entreat  thee  now  to  follow  me! 

Marcjaret.  ( Turning  towards  Imn.)  And 
art  thou  he?  and  art  thou  really  he? 
Faust.  ’Tis  I ! Oh,  come  ! 

Margaret.  Thou  wilt  strike  off  my  chain. 
And  thou  wilt  take  me  to  thine  arms  again. 
How  comes  it  that  thou  dost  not  shrink  from 
me  ? — 

And  dost  thou  know,  love,  whom  thou  wouldst 
set  free  ? 

Faust.  Come  ! come  ! already  night  be- 
gins to  wane. 


78 


FAUS'I'.  FIRS'r  PARI’. 


MAKGAKEl  IN  I'KISON. 


Margakei-.  1 sent  my  mother  to  her  grave, 
I drown’d  my  child  beneath  the  wave. 

Was  it  not  given  to  thee  and  me — thee  too  ? 
’Tis  thou  thyself!  I scarce  believe  it  yet. 
Give  me  thy  hand  ! It  is  no  dream  I ’'I’istrue! 
Thine  own  dear  hand  ! — But  how  is  this?  ’Tis 
wet ! 

Quick,  wipe  it  off!  Meseems  that  yet 
There’s  blood  thereon. 

Ah  God  ! what  hast  thou  done  ? 

Put  up  thy  sword, 

1 beg  of  thee  ! 

Faust.  Oh,  dearest,  let  the  past  forgotten 
be  ! 

Death  is  in  every  word. 

Margaret.  No,  thou  must  linger  here  in 
sorrow  ! 

'I'he  graves  I will  describe  to  thee, 

,\nd  thou  to  them  must  see 
fo-morrow : 

I'he  best  place  give  to  my  mother, 

Close  at  her  side  my  brother, 

Me  at  some  distance  lay — 

But  not  too  far  away! 

.\nd  the  little  one  place  on  my  right  breast. 
Nobody  else  will  near  me  lie ! 

To  nestle  beside  thee  so  lovingly. 

That  was  a rapture,  gracious  and  sweet  I 
A rapture  I never  again  shall  prove  ; 

Methinks  I would  force  myself  on  thee,  love. 
And  thou  dost  spurn  me,  and  back  retreat — 
Yet  ’tis  thyself,  thy  fond  kind  looks  I see. 
Faust.  If  thou  dost  feel  ’tis  I,  then  come 
with  me  ! 

Margaret.  What,  there?  without? 

Faust.  Yes,  forth  in  the  free  air. 

Margaret.  Ay,  if  the  grave’s  without, — 
If  death  lurk  there  ! 

Hence  to  the  everlasting  resting-place. 

And  not  one  step  beyond  ! — Thou’rt  leaving 
me  ? 

Oh,  Henry  ! would  that  I could  go  with  thee ! 
Faust.  Thou  canst ! But  will  it ! Open 
stands  the  door. 

Margaret.  I dare  not  go!  I’ve  naught 
to  hope  for  more. 

What  boots  it  to  escape  ? They  lurk  for  me  ! 
’Tis  wretched  to  beg,  as  I must  do. 

And  with  an  evil  conscience  thereto ! 

’Tis  wretched,  in  foreign  lands  to  stray; 

And  me  they  will  catch,  do  what  I may! 
Faust.  With  thee  will  I abide. 

Margarei'.  Quick  ! quick  ! 

Save  thy  poor  child  ! 

Keep  to  the  path 
The  brook  along. 


Over  the  bridge 
To  the  wood  beyond. 

To  the  left,  where  the  plank  is. 

In  the  pond. 

Seize  it  at  once  ! 

It  fain  would  rise. 

It  struggles  still  ! 

Save  it.  Oh,  save  ! 

Faust.  Dear  Gretchen,  more  colledled  be  ! 
One  little  step  and  thou  art  free  ! 

Margaret.  Were  we  but  only  past  the  hill ! 
There  sits  my  mother  upon  a stone — 

My  brain,  alas,  is  cold  with  dread  ! — 

There  sits  my  mother  upon  a stone. 

And  to  and  fro  she  shakes  her  head  ; 

She  winks  not,  she  nods  not,  her  head  it  droops 
sore ; 

She  slept  so  long,  .she  wak’d  no  more ; 

She  slept,  that  we  might  taste  of  bliss: 

Ah  ! those  were  haj>py  times,  I wis  ! 

Faust.  Since  here  avails  nor  argument  nor 
prayer. 

Thee  hence  by  force  I needs  must  bear. 

Margaret.  Loose  me  ! I will  not  suffer 
violence  ! 

With  murderous  hand  hold  not  so  fast  ! 

I have  done  all  to  please  thee  in  the  past  ! 
Faust.  Day  dawns  ! My  love!  my  love  ! 
Margaret.  Yes  ! day  draws  near. 

The  day  of  judgment  too  will  soon  appear  ! 

It  should  have  been  my  bridal  ! No  one  tell 
That  thv  poor  Gretchen  thou  hast  known  too 
well. 

Woe  to  my  garland  ! 

Its  bloom  is  o’er  ! 

Though  not  at  the  dance — 

We  shall  meet  once  more. 

The  crowd  doth  gather,  in  silence  it  rolls ; 
The  squares,  the  streets. 

Scarce  hold  the  throng. 

The  staff  is  broken, — the  death-bell  tolls, — - 
d'hey  bind  and  seize  me  ! I’m  hurried  along. 
To  the  seat  of  blood  already  I’m  bound  ! 
Quivers  each  neck  as  the  naked  steel 
Quivers  on  mine  the  blow  to  deal — 

The  silence  of  the  grave  now  broods  around  ! 
Faust.  Would  I had  ne’er  been  born  ! 
Mephis.  ( Appears  without.)  Up!  or  you’re 
lost. 

Vain  hesitation  ! Babbling,  quaking  ! 

My  steeds  are  shivering. 

Morn  is  breaking. 

Margaret.  What  from  the  floor  ascendeth 
like  a ghost  ? 

’Tis  he  ! ’Tis  he  ! Him  from  my  presence 
chase  ! 


7P 


What  would  he  in  this  holy  place? 

It  is  for  me  he  cometh  ! 

Faust.  Thou  shalt  live  ! 

Margaret.  Judgment  of  God  ! To  thee 
my  soul  I give  ! 

Mephis.  (71;  Faust.)  Come!  come  I I’ll 
leave  thee  else  to  share  her  doom  ! 
Margaret.  Father,  I’m  thine  1 Save  me  I 
To  thee  I come  1 

END  OF 


Ye  angels  1 Ye  angelic  hosts  ! descend, 
Encamp  around  to  guard  me  and  defend  ! — 
Henry!  1 shudder  now  to  look  on  thee! 
Mephis.  She  now  is  judged  ! 

Voices.  (From  above.)  Is  saved  ! 
Mephis.  (To  Fau.st.)  Come  thou  with 
me  ! [ Vanishes  with  Faust. 

Voice.  ( F>-o»i  within,  dying  away.)  Henry! 
Henry ! 

PART  I. 


DRAMATIS  TERSON.'E. 


Faust. 

Mephistopheles  (in  various  disguises). 

ALSO  IN 


ACT  I. 


.Ariel. 

Emperor. 

Fool  (Mephistopheles ) . 
Chancellor. 


Commander-in-Chiee. 

Treasurer. 

Marshal. 

Astrologer. 


Various  Ladies,  Gentlemen  and  Pages  of  the  eourt.  Also  numerous  male  and  female  masks. 


Scene — Chiefly  in  the  different  apartments  and  Pleasure  Garden  of  the  Imperial  Palaee. 


ACT  II. 

Famulus.  I Wagner. 

B.-^ccalaureus.  I Homunculus. 

Numerous  mythical  personages  and  monsters  appearing  in  the  Classical  Walpurgis-Night. 
Scene — Faust’s  Study ; afterwards  the  I^harsalian  Plains. 


ACT  III. 

Helen.  I PMphorion,  Helen’s  Son. 

Phorkyau  (Mephistopheles).  Panthalis  and  Chorus  of  Trojan  women. 

Lvnceus,  the  Watchman.  \ 

Scene — At  first  the  supposed  Palace  of  Menelaus  in  Sparta;  afterwards  the  Courtyard 
of  a tnedueval  castle,  and  finally  a rocky  dell. 


ACT  IV. 

The  three  mighty  men:  Bully,  Havequick  and  Holdfast. 
Speedquick. 

The  I'AiPEROR,  and  other  officers  of  his  Court,  as  in  Acr  I. 
Scene — A high  mountainous  country  and  the  adjacent  neighborhood. 


Baucis. 

Phile:mon. 

A Wanderer. 
Lynceus. 


ACT  V. 

The  four  gray  women  : Want,  Guilt,  Care 
a?ul  Need. 

Temures. 

.A  Penitent,  formerly  Margaret. 

I Dr.  Marianus. 


Chorus  of  Angels  and  Penitents  and  various  Heavenly  charaflers. 


Scene — The  neighborhood  of  Faust’s  Palace,  afterwards  rocky  heights  and  the  higher 
regions  of  the  sky. 


82 


I 


ACT  I. 


A Pleasing  Landscape. 

Faust  reclining  upon  flowery  turf,  restless, 
seeking  sleep. 

Twilight. 

Circle  of  spirits,  hovering,  flit  around. — 
Graceful,  tiny  forms. 

Ariel.  (Song,  accompanied  by  Aiolian 
harps.)  When,  in  vernal  showers  de- 
scending, 

Blossoms  gently  veil  the  earth. 

When  the  fields’  green  wealth,  up-tending. 
Gleams  on  all  of  mortal  birth : 

Tiny  elves,  where  help  availeth. 

Large  of  heart,  there  fly  apace  ; 

Pity  they  whom  grief  assaileth. 

Be  he  holy,  be  he  base. 

Ye  round  this  liead  on  airy  wing  careering. 
Attend,  in  noble  Klfin  guise  appearing; 
Assuage  the  cruel  strife  that  rends  his  heart. 
The  burning  shaft  remove  of  keen  remorse, 
From  rankling  horror  cleanse  his  inmost  part: 
Four  are  the  pauses  of  the  nightly  course  ; 
'I’hem,  without  rest,  fill  up  with  kindly  art. 
And  first  his  head  ujion  cool  pillow  lay, 

'Phen  bathe  ye  him  in  dew  from  Lethe’s 
stream  ; 

His  limbs,  cramp-stiffen’d,  will  more  freely 
play. 

If  sleep-refreshed  he  wait  morn’s  wak’ning 
beam. 


Perform  the  noblest  Elfin  rite. 

Restore  ye  him  to  the  holy  light  ! 

Chorus.  ( Singly,  two  or  more,  alternately 
and  together.)  Softly  when  warm  gales 
are  stealing 

O’er  the  green-environ’d  ground, 

'Pwilight  sheddeth  all-concealing 
Mists  and  balmy  odors  round  : 

Whispers  low  sweet  peace  to  mortals. 

Rocks  the  heart  to  childlike  rest. 

And  of  daylight  shuts  the  portals 
i To  these  eyes,  with  care  oppress’d. 

Night  hath  now  descended  darkling. 

Holy  star  is  link’d  to  star; 

Sovereign  fires,  or  faintly  sparkling, 

Glitter  near  and  shine  afar ; 

Glitter  here  lake-mirror’d,  yonder 
Shine  adown  the  clear  night  sky; 

Sealing  bliss  of  perfedt  slumber. 

Reigns  the  moon’s  full  majesty. 

Now  the  hours  are  cancell’d  ; sorrow. 
Happiness,  have  pass’d  away: 

Whole  thou  shalt  be  on  the  morrow  ! 

Feel  it  ! 'Frust  the  new-born  day! 

Swell  the  hills,  green  grow  the  valleys. 

In  the  dusk  ere  breaks  the  morn  ; 

And  in  silvery  wavelets  dallies. 

With  the  wind,  the  ripening  corn. 

Cherish  ho])e,  let  naught  appall  thee  ! 

Mark  the  East,  with  splendor  dyed  ! 

Slight  the  fetters  that  enthrall  thee  ; 

Fling  the  shell  of  sleei)  aside  ! 


Gird  thee  for  the  high  endeavor  ; 

Shun  the  crowd’s  ignoble  ease  ! 

Fails  the  noble  spirit  never, 

Wise  to  think,  and  prompt  to  seize. 

\^A  tremendous  tumult  announces  the  uprising 
of  the  sun. 

Ariel.  Hark  ! the  horal  tempest  nears! 
Sounding  but  for  spirit  ears, 

Lo  ! the  new-born  day  appears  ; 

Clang  the  rocky  portals,  climb 
Phoebus’  wheels  with  thund’rous  chime  : 

Breaks  with  tuneful  noise  the  light  I 

Blare  of  trumpet,  clarion  sounding. 

Eyesight  dazing,  ear  astounding! 

Hear  not  the  unheard;  take  flight ! 

Into  petal’d  blossoms  glide 
Deeper,  deeper,  still  to  bide. 

In  the  clefts,  ’neath  thickets  ! ye, 

If  it  strike  you,  deaf  will  be. 

Faust.  Life’s  pulses  reawaken’d  freshly 
bound. 

The  mild  etliereal  twilight  fain  to  greet. 

Thou,  Earth,  this  night  wast  also  constant 
found. 

And,  newly-quicken’d,  breathing  at  my  feet, 
Beginnest  now  to  gird  me  with  delight : 

A strong  resolve  dost  rouse,  with  noble  heat 
Aye  to  press  on  to  being’s  sovereign  height. 
The  world  in  glimmering  dawn  still  folded  lies; 
With  thousand-voiced  life  the  woods  resound ; 
Mist-wreaths  the  valley  shroud  ; yet  from  the 
skies 

Sinks  heaven’s  clear  radiance  to  the  depths 
profound  ; 

And  bough  and  branch  from  dewy  chasms 
rise, 

Where  they  had  droop’d  erewhile  in  slumber 
furl’d ; 

Earth  is  enamell’d  with  unnumber’d  dyes. 
Leaflet  and  flower  with  dewdrops  are  im- 
pearl’d  ; 

Around  me  everywhere  is  paradise. 

Gaze  now  aloft ! Each  mountain’s  giant  height 
The  solemn  hour  announces,  herald-wise  ; 
They  early  may  enjoy  the  eternal  light. 

To  us  below  which  later  finds  its  way. 

Now  are  the  Alpine  slopes  and  valleys  dight 
Wbth  the  clear  radiance  of  the  new-born  day. 
Which,  downward,  step  by  step,  steals  on 
apace. — 

It  blazes  forth, — and,  blinded  by  the  ray, 
With  aching  eyes,  alas  ! I veil  my  face. 

So  when  a hope,  the  heart  hath  long  held  fast. 
Trustful,  still  striving  towards  its  highest  goal. 


! Fulfilment’s  portals  open  finds  at  last  ; — 
Sudden  from  those  eternal  depths  doth  roll 
An  overpowering  flame ; — we  stand  aghast ! 
The  torch  of  life  to  kindle  we  were  fain  ; — 

A fire-sea, — what  a fire  ! — doth  round  us  close ; 
Love  is  it?  Is  it  hate?  with  joy  and  pain. 

In  alternation  vast,  that  round  us  glows? 

So  that  to  earth  we  turn  our  wistful  gaze. 

In  childhood’s  veil  to  shroud  us  once  again  ! 

So  let  the  sun  behind  me  pour  its  rays! 

The  cataradl,  through  rocky  cleft  that  roars, 

I view,  with  growing  rapture  and  amaze. 

From  fall  to  fall,  with  eddying  shock,  it  pours. 
In  thousand  torrents  to  the  depths  below. 

Aloft  in  air  up-tossing  showers  of  spray. 

But  see,  in  splendor  bursting  from  the  storm. 
Arches  itself  the  many-colored  bow. 

An  ever-changeful,  yet  continuous  form. 

Now  drawn  distindlly,  melting  now  away. 
Diffusing  dewy  coolness  all  around  ! 

Man’s  efforts  there  are  glass’d,  his  toil  and 
strife ; 

Refledl,  more  true  the  emblem  will  be  found : 
This  bright  refledted  glory  pidlures  life  ! 


Imperial  Palace.  Throne-Room. 
Council  of  State,  in  expectation  Emperor. 

Trumpets. 

Enter  courtiers  of  every  grade,  splendidly  at- 
tir' d.  The  F.mperor  ascends  the  throne ; 

to  the  right  the  Astrologer. 

Emperor.  I greet  you,  trusty  friends  and 
dear. 

Assembled  thus  from  far  and  wide  ! — 

I see  the  wise  man  at  my  side, 

But  wherefore  is  the  fool  not  here  ? 

Page.  Entangled  in  thy  mantle’s  flow. 

He  tripped  upon  the  stair  below; 

The  mass  of  fat  they  bare  away. 

If  dead  or  drunken — who  can  say? 

Second  Page.  Forthwith  another  comes 
apace. 

With  wondrous  speed  to  take  his  place; 
Costly,  yet  so  grotesque  his  gear. 

All  start  amaz’d  as  he  draws  near. 

Crosswise  the  guards  before  his  face. 

Entrance  to  bar,  their  halberds  hold — 

Yet  there  he  is,  the  fool  so  bold. 

Mephis.  (Kneeling  before  the  throne.) 
What  is  accurs’d  and  gladly  hail’d? 

What  is  desir’d  and  chas’d  away? 


84 


Wliat  is  upbraid’d  and  assail’d? 

What  wins  protection  every  day? 

Whom  darest  thou  not  summon  here  ? 

Whose  name  dotli  plaudits  still  command? 
What  to  thy  throne  now  draweth  near? 

What  from  this  ])lace  itself  hath  bann’d  ? 
Empekor.  For  this  time  thou  thy  words 
mayst  spare  ! 

d’his  is  no  place  for  riddles,  friend  ; 

They  are  these  gentlemen’s  affair. — 

Solve  them  ! an  ear  I’ll  gladly  lend. 

My  old  fool’s  gone,  far,  far  away,  1 fear; 

Take  thou  his  place,  come,  stand  beside  me 
here ! 


[Mephistophei.es  ascctids  and  places  him- 
self at  the  Emperor’s  left. 

( Murmur  of  the  Crowd. ) 

Here’s  a new  fool — for  ])lague  anew! 

Whence  cometh  he? — Flow  pass’d  he  through? 
'The  old  one  fell — -he  squander’d  hath. — • 

He  was  a tub — now  ’tis  a lath. — 

Emperor.  So  now,  my  friends,  belov’d 
and  leal. 

Be  welcome  all,  from  near  and  far  ! 

Ye  meet  ’neath  an  auspicious  star; 

I For  us  above  are  written  jov  and  weal. 

I But  tell  me  wherefore,  on  this  day. 


85 


Faust.  Second  Part. 


When  we  all  care  would  cast  away, 

And  don  the  masker’s  quaint  array, 

And  naught  desire  but  to  enjoy. 

Should  we  with  state  affairs  ourselves  annoy? 
But  if  ye  think  it  so  must  be  indeed, 

Why,  well  and  good,  let  us  forthwith  proceed ! 
Chancellor.  The  highest  virtue  circles 
halo-wise 

Our  Caesar’s  brow ; virtue,  which  from  the 
throne, 

He  validly  can  exercise  alone  : 

Justice  ! — What  all  men  love  and  prize. 

What  all  demand,  desire,  and  sorely  want. 

It  lies  with  him,  this  to  the  folk  to  grant. 

But  ah  1 what  help  can  intellect  command, 
Goodness  of  heart,  or  willingness  of  hand. 
When  fever  saps  the  state  with  deadly  power. 
And  mischief  breedeth  mischief,  hour  b\’  hour? 
'I’o  him  who  downward  from  this  height  su- 
preme 

Views  the  wide  realm,  ’tis  like  a troubled 
dream, 

Wliere  the  deform’d  deformity  o’ersways. 
Where  lawlessness,  through  law,  the  tyrant 
plays. 

And  error’s  ample  world  itself  displays. 

One  steals  a woman,  one  a steer. 

Lights  from  the  altar,  chalice,  cross. 

Boasts  of  his  deed  full  many  a year. 

Unscath’d  in  body,  without  harm  or  loss. 

Now  to  the  hall  accusers  throng; 

On  cushion’d  throne  the  judge  presides; 
Surging  meanwhile  in  eddying  tides. 
Confusion  waxes  fierce  and  strong. 

He  may  exult  in  crime  and  shame. 

Who  on  accomplices  depends  ; 

Guilty  ! the  verdift  they  proclaim. 

When  Innocence  her  cause  defends. 

So  will  the  world  succumb  to  ill. 

And  what  is  worthy  perish  quite  ; 

How  then  may  grow  the  sense  which  still 
Instrudls  us  to  discern  the  right  ? 

E’en  the  right-minded  man,  in  time. 

To  briber  and  to  flatterer  yields; 

The  judge,  who  cannot  punish  crime. 

Joins  with  the  culprit  whom  he  shields. — 

I’ve  jiainted  black,  yet  fain  had  been 
A veil  to  draw  before  the  scene. 

\^Pause. 

Measures  must  needs  be  taken  ; when 
All  injure  or  are  injur’d,  then 
E’en  Majesty  becomes  a prey. 

Field-Marshal.  In  these  wild  days  what 
tumults  reign  ! 


Each  smitten  is  and  smites  again  ; 

Deaf  to  command,  will  none  obey. 

The  burgher,  safe  behind  his  wall. 

Within  his  rocky  nest,  the  knight, 

■Against  us  have  conspir’d,  and  all 
Firmly  to  hold  their  own  unite. 

Impatient  is  the  hireling  now, 

With  vehemence  he  claims  his  due  ; 

And  did  we  owe  him  naught,  I trow. 

Off  he  would  run,  nor  bid  adieu. 

Who  thwarts  what  fondly  all  expedt. 

He  hath  disturb’d  a hornet’s  nest; 

The  empire  which  they  should  protedl. 

It  lieth  plunder’d  and  oppress’d. 

Their  furious  rage  may  none  restrain  ; 

Already  half  the  world’s  undone  ; 

Abroad  there  still  are  kings  who  reign — 

None  thinks  ’tis  his  concern,  not  one. 

Treasurer.  Who  will  depend  upon  allies! 
For  us  their  piomis’d  subsidies 
Like  conduit-water,  will  not  flow. 

Say,  Sire,  through  your  dominions  vast 
To  whom  hath  now  possession  pass’d  ! 

Some  upstart,  wheresoe’er  we  go. 

Keeps  house,  and  independent  reigns; 

We  must  look  on,  he  holds  his  own; 

So  many  rights  away  we’ve  thrown. 

That  for  ourselves  no  right  remains. 

On  so-called  jiarties  in  the  state 
There’s  no  reliance,  now-a-days; 
d'hey  may  deal  out  or  blame  or  praise. 
Indifferent  are  love  and  hate. 

The  Ghibelline  as  well  as  Guelph 
Retire,  that  they  may  live  at  ease  ! 

Who  helps  his  neighbor  now?  Himself 
Each  hath  enough  to  do  to  please. 

Barr’d  are  the  golden  gates;  while  each 
Scrapes,  snatches,  gathers  all  within  his  reach — 
Empty,  meanwhile,  our  chest  remains. 

Steward.  What  worry  must  I,  also,  bear  ! 
Our  aim  each  day  is  still  to  spare — 

And  more  each  day  we  need ; my  pains. 

Daily  renew’d,  are  never  o’er. 

The  cooks  lack  nothing ; — deer,  wild-boar. 
Stags,  hares,  fowls,  turkeys,  ducks  and  geese, — 
Tribute  in  kind,  sure  payment,  these 
Come  fairly  in,  and  none  complains. 

But  now  at  last  wine  fails;  and  if  of  yore 
Up-piled  upon  the  cellar-floor. 

Cask  rose  on  cask,  a goodly  store. 

From  the  best  slopes  and  vintage  ; now 
The  swilling  of  our  lords,  I trow. 

Unceasing,  drains  the  very  lees. 

E’en  the  Town-council  must  give  out 
Its  liquor; — bowls  and  cups  they  seize. 

And  ’neath  the  table  lies  the  drunken  rout. 


86 


Now  must  I pay,  whate’er  betides  ; 

Me  the  Jew  spares  not ; he  provides 
Anticipation-bonds  which  feed 
Each  year  on  that  which  must  succeed  ; 

The  swine  are  never  fatten’d  now; 

Pawn’d  is  the  pillow  or  the  bed, 

And  to  the  table  comes  fore-eaten  bread. 
Emperor.  {After  some  reflenion  to  Mephis- 
TOPHELES.)  Say,  fool,  another  grievance  j 
knowest  thou  ? 

Mephis.  I,  nowise.  On  this  circling  pomp  I 
to  gaze. 

On  thee  and  thine ! There  can  reliance  fail 
Where  majesty  resistless  sways, 

.\nd  ready  power  makes  foemen  quail? 

Where  loyal  will,  through  reason  strong. 

And  prowess,  manifold,  unite. 

What  could  together  join  for  wrong. 

For  darkness,  where  such  stars  give  light? 

( Murmur  of  the  Crowd. ) 

He  is  a knave — he  comprehends — 

He  lies — while  lying  serves  his  ends — 

Full  well  I know — what  lurks  behind — • 

What  next? — Some  scheme  is  in  the  wind  ! — 
Mephis.  Where  is  not  something  wanting 
here  on  earth? 

Here  this, — there  that:  of  gold  is  here  the 
dearth. 

It  cannot  from  the  floor  be  scrap’d,  ’tis  true; 
But  what  lies  deepest  wisdom  brings  to  view. 

In  mountain-veins,  walls  underground. 

Is  gold,  both  coin’d  and  uncoin’d,  to  be  found. 
And  if  ye  ask  me, — bring  it  forth  who  can? 
Spirit  and  nature-i)Ower  of  gifted  man. 

Chancellor.  Nature  and  spirit — Christians 
ne’er  sliould  hear 

Such  words,  with  peril  fraught  and  fear. 

These  words  doom  atheists  to  the  fire. 

Nature  is  sin,  spirit  is  devil ; they, 

Between  them,  doubt  beget,  their  progeny, 
Hermaj)hrodite,  mis-shaj)en,  dire. 

Not  so  with  us ! Within  our  Ctesar’s  land 
Two  orders  have  arisen,  two  alone. 

Who  worthily  support  his  ancient  throne: 
Clergy  and  knights,  who  fearless  stand. 
Bulwarks  ’gainst  every  storm,  and  they 
Take  church  and  state,  as  their  ap])ro]u  iate  pay. 
Through  lawless  men,  the  vulgar  herd 
To  opposition  have  of  late  been  stirr’d; 

The  heretics  these  are,  the  wizards,  who 
The  city  ruin  and  the  country  too. 

With  thy  bold  jests,  to  this  high  sphere. 

Such  miscreants  wilt  smuggle  in  ; 

Hearts  reprobate  to  you  are  dear ; 

I'hey  to  the  fool  are  near  of  kin. 


Mephis.  Herein  your  learned  men  I re- 
cognize ! 

What  you  touch  not,  miles  distant  from  you 
lies ; 

What  you  grasp  not,  is  naught  in  sooth  to  you  ; 
AVhat  you  count  not,  cannot  you  deem  be  true  ; 
What  you  weigh  not,  that  hath  for  you  no 
weight ; 

What  you  coin  not,  you’re  sure  is  counterfeit. 

Emperor.  Therewith  our  needs  are  not 
one  whit  the  less. 

^Vhat  meanest  thou  with  this  thy  Lent  address? 
I’m  tired  of  this  eternal  If  and  How. 
i ’Tis  gold  we  lack;  so  good,  procure  it  thou  ! 

I Mephis.  I’ll  furnish  more,  ay,  more  than 
all  you  ask. 

Though  light  it  seem,  not  easy  is  the  task. 
There  lies  the  gold,  but  to  procure  it  thence, 

; That  is  the  art:  who  knoweth  to  commence? 

Only  consider,  in  those  days  of  terror, 
i When  human  floods  swamp’d  land  and  folk 
together. 

How  every  one,  how  great  soe’er  his  fear. 

All  that  he  treasur’d  most,  hid  there  or  here; 
So  was  it  ’neath  the  mighty  Roman’s  sway. 

So  on  till  yesterday,  ay,  till  to-day  : 

That  all  beneath  the  soil  still  buried  lies — • 
The  soil  is  Caesar’s,  his  shall  be  the  prize. 

Tre.asurer.  Now  for  a fool  he  speaketh 
not  amiss; 

Our  Caesar’s  ancient  right,  in  sooth,  was  this. 

Chancellor.  Satan  for  you  spreads  golden 
snares ; ’tis  cleai'. 

Something  not  right  or  pious  worketli  here. 

Steward.  To  us  at  court  if  welcome  gifts 
he  bring, 

A little  wrong  is  no  such  serious  thing. 

Field-Mar.shal.  Shrewd  is  the  fool,  he 
bids  what  all  desire  ; 

The  soldier,  whence  it  comes,  will  not  inquire. 

Mephis.  You  think  yourselves,  perchance, 
deceiv’d  by  me; 

Ask  the  Astrologer!  This  man  is  he! 

Circle  round  circle,  hour  and  house,  he 
knows. — 

Then  tell  us  how  the  heavenly  aspedi  shows. 

(Mur)nur  of  the  Crowd.) 

Two  rascals — each  to  other  known — 

Phantast  and  fool — so  near  the  throne — 

The  old  old  song, — now  trite  with  age — 

'fhe  fool  still  prompts — while  speaks  the  sage. 

Astrologer.  (Speaks,  Mephistophei.es 
prompts.)  I'he  sun  himself  is  purest 
gold ; for  pay 

And  favor  serves  the  herald.  Mercury; 


87 


Dame  Venus  hath  bewitch’d  you  from  above, 
Early  and  late,  she  looks  on  you  with  love; 
Chaste  Luna’s  humor  varies  hour  by  hour; 
Mars,  though  he  strike  not,  threats  you  with 
his  power ; 

And  Jupiter  is  still  the  fairest  star; 

Saturn  is  great,  small  to  the  eye  and  far ; 

As  metal  him  we  slightly  venerate. 

Little  in  worth,  though  ponderous  in  weight. 
Now  when  with  Sol  fair  Luna  doth  unite, 
Silver  with  gold,  cheerful  the  world  and  bright ! 
Then  easy  ’tis  to  gain  whate’er  one  seeks; 
Parks,  gardens,  palaces,  and  rosy  cheeks; 
d’hese  things  ])rocures  this  highly  learned  man. 
He  can  accomplish  what  none  other  can. 
Emperor.  Double,  methinks,  his  accents 
ring. 

And  yet  they  no  convi6lion  bring. 

( Murmur. ) 

Of  what  avail ! — a worn-out  tale — 

Calender)’ — and  chemistry — 

I the  false  word — full  oft  have  heard — • 

And  as  of  yore — we’re  hoax’d  once  more. 
Mephis.  'Phe  grand  discovery  they  mis- 
l)iize. 

As,  in  amaze,  they  stand  around ; 

One  prates  of  gnomes  and  sorceries. 

Another  of  the  sable  hound. 

What  matters  it,  though  witlings  rail, 

Though  one  his  suit  ’gainst  witchcraft  press. 

If  his  sole  tingle  none  the  less. 

If  his  sure  footing  also  fail? 

Ye  of  all  swaying  Nature  feel 
The  secret  working,  never-ending, 

And,  from  her  lowest  depths  ui)-tending, 

E’en  now  her  living  trace  doth  steal. 

If  sudden  cramps  your  limbs  surj)rise. 

If  all  uncanny  seem  the  spot — 

There  dig  and  delve,  but  dally  not ! 

There  lies  the  fiddler,  there  the  treasure  lies ! 

( Afurmur. ) 

Like  lead  it  lies  my  foot  about — 

Cramp’d  is  my  arm — -’tis  only  gout — 
Twitchings  I have  in  my  great  toe — 

Down  all  my  back  strange  pains  I know — 
Such  indications  make  it  clear 
That  sumless  treasuries  are  here. 

Emperor.  To  work — the  time  for  flight  is 
past. — 

Put  to  the  test  your  frothy  lies ! 

'Phese  treasures  bring  before  our  eyes! 

Sce])tre  and  sword  aside  I’ll  cast, 

And  with  these  royal  hands,  indeed. 

If  thou  lie  not,  to  work  proceed. 

Thee,  if  thou  lie.  I’ll  send  to  hell ! 


Mephis.  Thither  to  find  the  way  I know 
full  well  I— 

Yet  can  I not  enough  declare, 

Wliat  w'ealth  unown’d  lies  w'aiting  everywhere; 
The  countryman,  who  ploughs  the  land. 
Gold-crocks  upturneth  with  the  mould; 

Nitre  he  seeks  in  lime-walls  old. 

And  findeth,  in  his  meagre  hand. 

Scar’d,  yet  rejoic’d,  rouleaus  of  gold. 

How  many  a vault  upblowm  must  be. 

Into  what  clefts,  w’hat  shafts,  must  he. 

Who  doth  of  hidden  treasure  know. 

Descend,  to  reach  the  world  below’ ! 

In  cellars  vast,  imjiervious  made. 

Goblets  of  gold  he  sees  display’d. 

Dishes  and  plates,  row  after  row; 

There  beakers,  rich  with  rubies,  stand ; 

And  would  he  use  them,  close  at  hand 
Well  stor’d  the  ancient  moisture  lies; 

Yet — would  ye  him  who  knoweth,  trust? — 
The  staves  long  since  have  turned  to  dust, 

A tartar  cask  their  place  supplies  1 
Not  gold  alone  and  jewels  rare. 

Essence  of  noblest  wanes  are  there. 

In  night  and  horror  veiled.  The  wise 
Unw'earied  here  jnirsues  his  quest. 

To  search  by  day,  that  w'ere  a jest ; 

’Tis  darkness  that  doth  harbor  mysteries. 
Emperor.  What  can  the  dark  avail  ? Look 
thou  to  that ! 

If  aught  have  worth,  it  cometh  to  the  light. 
Who  can  deteft  the  rogue  at  dead  of  night? 
Black  are  the  cows,  and  gray  is  every  cat. 
These  pots  of  heavy  gold,  if  they  be  there — 
Come,  drive  thy  plough,  upturn  them  with  thy 
share  ! 

Mephis.  Take  spade  and  hoe  thyself; — 
dig  on — 

Great  shalt  thou  be  through  peasant  toil — 

A herd  of  golden  calves  anon 
Themselves  shall  tear  from  out  the  soil ; 

Then  straight,  w'ith  rapture  newly  born. 
Thyself  thou  canst,  thy  sweetheart  wilt  adorn. 
A sparkling  gem,  lustrous,  of  varied  dye. 
Beauty  exalts  as  well  as  majesty. 

Emperor.  To  work,  to  work  ! How  long 
wilt  linger? 

Mephis.  Sire, 

Relax,  I pray,  such  veliement  desire  1 
First  let  us  see  the  motley,  joyous,  show  ! 

A mind  distraught  condu6ls  not  to  the  goal. 
First  must  we  calmness  win  through  self-con- 
trol, 

Tlirough  things  above  deserve  what  lies  below. 
Who  seeks  for  goodness  must  himself  be  good  ; 
Who  seeks  for  joy  must  moderate  his  blood; 


88 


Who  wine  desires,  the  luscious  grape  must 
jjress  ; 

Who  craveth  fniracles,  more  faith  possess. 
Emi’f.ror.  So  be  the  interval  in  gladness 
spent  ! 

Ash-Wednesday  cometh,  to  our  hearts’  content. 
Meanwhile  we’ll  solemnize,  whate’er  befall, 
More  merrily  the  joyous  Carnival. 

[ Trumpets.  Kxcuut. 
Mephis.  That  merit  and  success  are  link’d 
together, 

This  to  your  fools  occurreth  never ; 

Could  they  appropriate  the  wise  man’s  stone. 
That,  not  the  wise  man,  tliey  would  prize  alone. 
[y4  spacious  Hall,  with  adjoining  apartments, 
arranged  and  decorated  for  a masquerade. 
Herald.  Think  not  we  hold  in  Germany 
our  revels ; 

Where  dances  reign  of  death,  of  fools  and 
devils  •, 

You  doth  a cheerful  festival  invite. 

Our  CjEsar,  Romeward  turning  his  campaign, 
Hath — for  his  profit,  and  for  your  delight — 
Cross’d  the  high  Alps,  and  won  a fair  domain. 
Before  the  sacred  feet  bow’d  down. 

His  right  to  reign  he  first  hath  sought, 

.\nd  when  he  went  to  fetch  his  crown. 

For  us  the  fool’s  cap  hath  he  brought. 


Now  all  of  us  are  born  anew; 

And  every  world-e.xperienc’d  man 
Draws  it  in  comfort  over  head  and  ears; 

A fool  beneath  it,  he  appears. 

And  plays  the  sage  as  best  lie  can. 

I see  them,  how  they  form  in  groups. 

Now  they  pair  off,  now  wavering  sever ; 

Choir  now  with  choir  together  trooj)s, 

Within,  without,  unwearied  ever  ! 

'I'he  world  remaineth  as  of  yore. 

With  fooleries,  ten  thousand  score. 

The  one  great  fool,  for  ever  more  ! 

Garden-Giri.s.  (Song,  accompanied  by  man- 
dolins.) Tliat  to  us  ye  praise  may  render. 
Deck’d  are  we  in  festive  sort ; 

Girls  of  Florence,  we  the  splendor 
Follow  of  the  German  court. 

Many  a flower,  we.  Flora’s  vassals. 

In  our  dark  brown  tresses  wear; 

Silken  threads  and  silken  tassels. 

Play  their  part  and  grace  our  hair. 

For  we  hold  ourselves  deserving 
All  your  praises,  full  and  clear  ; 

Since  our  flowers,  their  bloom  preserving. 
Blossom  through  the  livelong  year. 

Cuttings  divers-hued  were  taken, 

And  arrang’d  with  symmetry  ; 


89 


Piece  by  piece  they  mirth  awaken, 

Yet  the  wliole  attracts  the  eye. 

Ciarden-girls  and  fair  to  look  on, 

Fittingly  we  play  our  part ; 

P'or  the  natural  in  woman, 

Closely  is  allied  to  art. 

Herald.  Now  from  baskets  richly  laden. 
Which,  upon  her  head  and  arm, 

Bearetli  every  lovely  maiden, 

Let  each  choose  what  each  doth  charm  ! 

Hasten  ye,  till  bower  and  alley 
Aspedf  of  a garden  bears  ! 

Worthy  are  the  crowds  to  dally 
Round  the  sellers  and  their  wares. 

Garden-Girls.  In  this  mart,  your  flowers 
unscreening. 

Cheapen  not,  as  them  you  show ! 

\Vith  brief  words,  but  full  of  meaning. 

What  he  hath,  let  each  one  know. 

Olive-Branch.  ( IVifh  fruit.)  I of  blos- 
soms envy  none. 

Quarrels  studiously  I shun  ; 

'I'hey  against  my  nature  are  : 

Marrow  of  the  land,  in  sooth 
Pledge  I am  of  peace  and  ruth, 

To  all  regions  near  and  far. 

Be  it  my  good  fortune  now 
To  adorn  tlie  loveliest  brow. 

Wheat-Wreath.  ( Golden.)  Ceres’  gifts, 
sweet  peace  expressing. 

Would  enhance  thy  charms;  be  wise  ! 

What  is  useful,  rich  in  blessing. 

As  thy  best  adornment  prize  ! 

Fancy-Garland.  Colored  flowers,  from 
moss  out-peering. 

Mallow-like,  a wondrous  show — 

, Not  in  nature’s  guise  appearing. 

Fashion  ’tis  that  makes  them  blow. 

Fancy-Nosegay.  Theophrastus  would  not 
Yenture 

Names  to  giYe  to  flowers  like  these. 

Yet,  though  some  perchance  may  censure. 
Many  still  I hope  to  please. 

Who  to  wreathe  her  locks  permits  me 
Straight  shall  win  a heighten’d  grace. 

Or  who  near  her  heart  admits  me. 

Finding  on  her  breast  a place. 

Challenge.  Be  your  motley  fancies 
moulded. 

For  the  fashion  of  the  day. 

Nature  never  yet  unfolded 
Wonders  half  so  strange  as  they: 

Golden  bells,  green  stalks,  forth  glancing 
From  rich  locks,  their  charm  enhancing. 

But  we — 


Rosebuds.  Hide  from  mortal  eyes. 

Happy  he  who  finds  the  prize! 

When  draws  nigh  once  more  the  summer. 
Rosebuds  greet  the  bright  new-comer. — 

Who  such  hajipiness  would  miss? 

Promise,  then  fulfilment, — this 
Is  the  law  in  Flora’s  reign, 

Swayeth  too  sense,  heart,  and  brain. 

\The  flower-girls  tastefully  arrange  their 
wares  under  green,  leafy  arcades. 
Gardeners  (Song,  accompanied  by  Theor- 
bos.) Mark  the  blossoms  calmly  sprouting. 
Charmingly  to  wreathe  your  brow; 

Fruits  will  not  deceive,  I trow; 

Taste,  enjoy  them,  nothing  doubting. 

Magnum  bonums,  cherries,  peaches. 

Faces  offer  sun-embrown’d : 

Buy,  poor  judge  the  eye  is  found  ; — 

Heed  what  tongue,  what  palate  teaches. 

Luscious  fruits  to  taste  invite  them 
Who  behold  these  rich  supplies. 

We  o’er  roses  poetize; — 

As  for  apples,  we  must  bite  them. 

Let  us  now,  with  your  good  pleasure. 

Join  your  youthful  choir,  in  pairs; 

And  beside  your  flowery  wares, 

Thus  adorn  our  riper  treasure. 

Under  leaf-adorned  bowers, 

’Mid  the  merry  windings  haste  ; 

Each  will  find  what  suits  his  taste; 

Buds  or  leafage,  fruit  or  flowers. 

\_A  mid  alternate  songs,  accompanied  by  guitars 
and  Theorbos,  the  two  choruses  proceed  to 
arrange  their  wares,  terrace-wist,  and  to 
offer  them  for  sale. 

Mother  and  Daughter. 

Mother.  Maiden,  when  thou  cam’st  to 
light. 

Full  thy  tender  form  of  grace; 

In  its  tiny  hood  bedight. 

Lovely  was  thy  infant  face. 

Then  I thought  of  thee  with  pride 
Of  some  wealthy  youth  the  bride. 

Taking  as  his  wife  thy  place. 

All  1 full  many  a year  in  vain. 

All  unus’d  away  have  pass’d ; 

Of  the  suitors’  motley  train 
Quickly  hath  gone  by  tlie  last ! 

Thou  with  one  didst  gaily  dance. 

One  didst  seek  with  quiet  glance. 

Or  sly  elbow-touch,  to  gain. 


CO 


All  the  fetes  that  we  might  plan, 

Vainly  did  we  celebrate; 

Games  of  forfeit,  or  third  man. 

Fruitless  were,  they  brought  no  mate; 
Many  a fool’s  abroad  to-day. 

Dear  one,  now  thy  charms  display, 

One  thou  mayst  attach,  though  late. 

{^Girlish  playfellows,  yoiaig  and  beautiful, 
enter  and  join  the  groups;  loud  conJide)i- 
tial  chatting  is  heard.  Fishers  anil  bird- 
catchers  with  nets,  fisinng-rods,  limed 
twigs,  and  other  gear,  enter  and  mingle 
with  the  maidens.  Reciprocal  attempts  to 
win,  to  catch,  to  escape,  and  hold  fast, 
give  occasion  to  most  agreeable  dialogues. 


Wood -Cutters.  ( Enter,  boisterous  and 

uncouth.)  Place!  Give  jtlace ! 

We  must  have  space  ! 

Trees  we  level, 

Down  they  fall. 

Crashing  to  the  ground  ; 

As  we  bear  them  forth. 

Blows  we  deal  around. 

To  our  praise,  be  sure ; — 

This  proclaim  aloud; — 

Labor’d  not  the  boor. 

Where  were  then  the  proud  ! 

How  in  idless  revel 
Could  they  at  their  ease ! 

Never  then  forget, — 


91 


If  we  did  not  sweat, 

'I'hat  ye  all  would  freeze. 
PuNCHiNELU)ES.  (Atvkward  and  foolish.) 
Fools  are  ye,  poor  hacks  ! 

Horn  with  curved  backs. 

Prudent  ones  are  we. 

From  all  burdens  free; 

For  our  greasy  caps, 

( )ur  jerkins  and  our  traps 
\Ve  bear  right  easily. 

F'orthwith  at  our  leisure. 

We  with  slijijier’d  feet, 

Saunter  at  our  jileasure, 

Un  through  mart  and  street. 

Standing  still  or  going. 

At  each  other  crowing; 

When  the  folk  around 
Gather  at  the  sound. 

Slipping  then  aside. 

Frolicking  together, 
flel-like  on  we  glide. 

.\nd  we  care  not  whether 
Ye  applaud  or  blame ; 

To  us  ’tis  all  the  same. 

P.^RASITES.  ( Flattering — lustful.) 

Porters  brave,  and  you. 
Charcoal-burners  true. 

Kinsmen,  ye  indeed 
Are  the  men  we  need. 

Bowings  low. 

Assenting  smiles. 

Long-drawn  phrases, 

Crooked  wiles. 

Double-breath, 

'I'hat  as  you  please. 

Blows  hot  or  cold  ; 

What  profit  these? — 

Down  from  heaven 
Must  fire  be  given, 

Vast,  enormous. 

If,  to  warm  us. 

We  no  coal  had  got. 

Nor  of  logs  a heap. 

Warm  our  hearth  to  keep. 

Our  furnace  to  make  hot. 

There  is  roasting. 

There  is  brewing. 

There  is  toasting, 

'I'here  is  stewing ; 

Your  true  taster 
Licks  the  dish ; 

Sniffs  the  roast. 

Forebodes  the  fish; 

'I'hese  for  great  deeds  make  him  able. 
Seated  at  his  patron’s  table. 


Drunken  Man.  (Hardly  conscious.) 

Naught  to-day  shall  mar  my  pleasure ! 

F'rank  I feel  myself  and  free; 

Cheerful  songs  and  jovial  leisure. 

Both  I hither  bring  with  me  ; 

Therefore  drink  I ! Drink  ye,  drink  ! 

Strike  your  glasses!  Clink  ye,  clink! 

You  behind  there,  join  the  fun  ! 

Strike  your  glasses;  so,  ’tis  done! 

Let  my  wife,  shrill-tongued,  assail  me. 

Sneering  at  my  colored  vest. 

And,  despite  my  vaunting,  hail  me 
Fool,  like  masquerader  dress’d; 

Still  I’ll  drink!  Come  drink  ye,  drink! 

Strike  your  glasses!  Clink  ye,  clink! 

Fools  in  motley,  join  the  fun  ! 

Strike  your  glasses;  so,  ’tis  done  ! 

Here  I’m  bless’d,  whoever  chooses 
Me,  as  erring,  to  upbraid  : 

If  to  score  mine  host  refuses. 

Scores  the  hostess,  scores  the  maid  ; 

Always  drink  I ! drink  ye,  drink  ! 

Up  my  comrades  ! clink  ye,  clink  ! 

Each  to  other  ! Join  the  fun  ! 

To  my  thinking  now  ’tis  done  ! 

From  this  place  there’s  now  no  flying. 

Here  where  pleasures  are  at  hand  : 

Let  me  lie,  where  I am  lying. 

For  I can  no  longer  stand. 

Chorus.  Brothers  all,  come  drink  ye, 
drink  ! 

One  more  toast,  now  clink  ye,  clink  ! 

Firmly  sit  on  bench  and  board  ! 

’Neath  the  table  lie  who’s  floor’d  ! 

\_The  Herald  announces  various  poets,  the 
Poet  of  Nature,  Court-singers,  and  Fitter- 
singers,  tender  as  well  as  enthusiastic.  In 
the  throng  of  competitors  of  every  kind  none 
7vill  allou!  the  others  to  be  heard.  One 
sneaks  past  with  a ferv  words. 

Satirist.  Know  ye  what  would  me  to-day. 
The  poet,  most  rejoice  and  cheer? 

If  I dar’d  to  sing  and  say, 

'I'hat  which  none  would  like  to  hear. 

\_Poets  of  Night  and  of  the  Sepulchre  send 
apologies,  inasmuch  as  they  are  engaged  in 
a most  interesting  conversation  with  a 
newly-arisen  Vampire,  wherefrom  a new 
kind  of  poetry  may  perhaps  be  developed ; 
the  Herald  must  admit  the  excuse,  and 
meanwhile  summons  the  Greek  Mythology , 
which,  though  in  modern  masks,  loses 
neither  charaGcr  nor  charm. 


92 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM 


FAUST.  SECOND  PART. 


VICTUKY,  PEAK,  IIOI’P  AND  PHUDIiNCE. 


'I'he  Graces. 

Aglaia.  Charm  we  bring  to  life,  and  grace  ; 
In  your  gifts  let  both  have  place  ! 

Hegemony.  In  receiving  let  the  twain, 
Preside!  ’Tis  sweet  our  wish  to  gain. 

Ei’phrosyne.  And  when  benefits  you  own 
Chiefly  be  these  graces  shown  ! 

The  Fates. 

Atropos.  I,  the  Eldest,  am  from  yonder 
Realm  iiiYited,  here  to  spin. 

Much  to  think  of,  much  to  ponder, 

Lieth  life’s  frail  thread  within. 

That  it  pliant  be  and  tender. 

Finest  flax  to  choose  be  mine ; 

That  it  even  be  and  slender. 

Must  the  cunning  finger  twine. 

If  of  festive  dance  and  pleasure 
Ye  too  wantonly  partake, 

Think  upon  this  thread’s  just  measure; 

0 be  cautious  ! It  may  break  ! 

Clotho.  Know  ye,  to  my  guidance  lately 
They  the  fateful  shears  confide. 

By  our  elder’s  doings  greatly 
None,  in  sooth,  were  edified. 

Spinnings,  to  no  issue  tending. 

Forth  she  drew  to  air  and  light ; 

Threads  of  noblest  promise  rending, 

Down  she  sent  to  realms  of  night. 

While  a novice  still  in  reigning, 

1 too  err’d,  in  bygone  years; 

But  to-day,  myself  restraining. 

In  the  sheath  I plunge  my  shears. 

Fain  I am  to  wear  the  bridle. 

Kindly  I this  place  survey  ; 

In  these  seasons,  gay  and  idle. 

Give  your  revelry  full  play  ! 

Lachesis.  Reason’s  laws  alone  obeying. 
Order  was  to  me  decreed. 

Mine  the  will  that,  ever-swaying. 

Never  errs  though  over-speed. 

Threads  are  coming  ; threads  are  going ; 

Each  one  in  its  course  I guide. 

None  permit  I overflowing. 

From  its  skein  to  swerve  aside. 

Were  I only  once  to  slumber  ! — 

For  the  world  my  spirit  quakes; 

Years  we  measure,  hours  we  number, 

-•\nd  the  hank  the  weaver  takes. 

Herald.  How  vers’d  so  e’er  in  lore  of 
ancient  fame. 


I 'I'hose  who  are  coming  now  ye  would  not 
know ; 

{ Gazing  upon  these  workers  of  much  woe. 
Them,  as  your  welcome  guests,  ye  would  pro- 
claim. 

The  Furies  these, — none  will  believe  us  ; — 
kind. 

Graceful  in  figure,  pretty,  young  and  fair ; 

If  their  acquaintance  ye  would  make,  beware; 
How  serpent-like  such  doves  can  wound,  ye’ll 
find. 

Cunning  they  are,  yet  now,  when  every  clown 
Boastful,  his  failings  shuns  not  to  proclaim. 
They  too,  desiring  not  angelic  fame. 

Own  themselves  plagues  of  country  and  of 
town. 

Alecto.  What  help  for  you  ? Since  young 
I we  are  and  fair, 

' Ye  in  such  flattering  kittens  will  confide  ! 

Has  any  here  a sweetheart  to  his  side. 

Stealing,  we  gain  his  ear,  until  we  dare 

To  tell  him,  face  to  face,  she  may  be  caught 
Winking  at  this  or  that  one ; that  ’tis  plain. 
She  halts,  is  crooked-back’ d,  and  dull  of  brain. 
And,  if  to  him  betroth’d,  is  good  for  naught. 

To  vex  the  bride  doth  also  tax  our  skill  : 

We  tell  what  slighting  things,  some  weeks 
agone. 

Her  lover  said  of  her,  to  such  an  one. — ■ 
They’re  reconcil’d,  yet  something  rankles  still. 

Megara.  That’s  a mere  jest ! Let  them 
be  mated,  then 

I go  to  work,  and  e’en  the  fairest  joy. 

In  every  case,  can  through  caprice  destroy. 
The  hours  are  changeful,  changeful  too  are 
men. 

What  was  desir’d,  once  grasp’d,  its  charm  hath 
lost ; 

Who  firmly  holds  the  madly  longed-for  prize. 
Straight  for  some  other  blessing  fondly  sighs; 
d'he  sun  he  flieth,  and  would  warm  the  frost. 

I How  to  arrange,  I know,  in  such  affairs  ; 

. And  here  Asmodi  lead,  my  comrade  true, 

.'\t  the  right  time  mischief  abroad  to  strew; 
And  so  destroy  the  human  race  in  pairs. 

Tisiphone.  Poison,  steel,  I mix  and  whet, 
j Words  abjuring, — for  the  traitor; — 
j Lov’st  thou  others,  sooner,  later. 

Ruin  shall  o’erwhelm  thee  yet. 

All  transform’d  to  gall  and  foam 
I Is  the  moment’s  sweetest  feeling  ! 


9> 


Here  no  higgling,  here  no  dealing  ! 
Sinn’d  he  hath,  his  sin  comes  home. 

Let  none  say:  “Forgiveness  cherish  !’’ 

'I'o  the  rocks  my  cause  I bring; 

Hark  ! Revenge,  the  echoes  ring  ! 

Who  betrayeth,  he  must  perish  ! 

Herald.  Now  may  it  please  you,  to  retire 
behind  ; 

For  what  now  cometh  is  not  of  your  kind. — 
Ye  see  a mountain  press  the  crowd  among. 

Its  flanks  with  brilliant  carpet  proudl)’  hung  ; 
^Vith  lengthen’d  tusks,  and  serpent-trunk  be- 
low, 

mystery,  but  I the  key  will  show. 

Thron’d  on  his  neck  a gentle  lady  rides, 

'\\'ith  a fine  wand  his  onward  course  she  guides. 
Aloft  the  other  stands,  of  stately  height. 

Girt  with  a splendor  that  o’erpowers  the  sight; 
Beside  him,  chain’ d,  two  noble  dames  draw  near; 
Sad  is  the  one,  the  other  blithe  of  cheer ; 

The  one  for  freedom  yearns,  the  other  feels 
she’s  free. 

Let  them  declare  in  turn  who  they  may  be  ! 

Fear.  Torches,  lamps,  with  lurid  sheen. 
Through  the  turmoil  gleam  around  ; 

These  deceitful  forms  between, 

Fetters  hold  me  firmly  bound. 

Hence,  vain  laughter-loving  brood  ! 

I mistrust  your  senseless  grin  ! 

All  my  foes,  with  clamor  rude. 

Strive  to-night  to  hem  me  in. 

Friend  like  foeman  would  betray  me. 

But  his  mask  I recognize ; 

I’here  is  one  who  fain  would  slay  me, 

Now,  unmask’d,  away  he  hies. 

Ah,  how  gladly  would  I wander 
Hence,  and  leave  this  lower  sphere; 

But  destrudlion,  threatening  yonder, 

Holds  me  ’twixt  despair  and  fear. 

Hope.  Hail  ! Beloved  sisters,  hail  ! 

If  to-day  and  yesterday 
Ye  have  lov’d  this  masking  play. 

Yet  to-morrow,  trite  the  tale. 

Will  your  masks  aside  be  thrown  ; 

And  if,  ’neath  the  torches’  glare. 

We  no  special  joy  have  known, 

Yet  will  we,  in  daylight  fair. 

Just  according  to  our  pleasure. 

Now  with  others,  now  alone. 

Wander  forth  o’er  lawn  and  mead  ; 

W'ork  at  will,  or  take  our  leisure. 

Careless  live,  exempt  from  need  ; 

And  at  last,  we’ll  aye  succeed. 

Everywhere,  as  welcome  guest. 


Step  we  in,  with  easy  mind  ; 

Confident  that  we  the  best 
Somewhere,  certainly,  may  find. 

Prudence.  Fear  and  hope,  in  chains  thus 
guiding. 

Two  of  man’s  chief  foes,  I bar 
From  the  thronging  crowds ; — dividing, 

Clear  the  way  ; — now  sav’d  ye  are  ! 

I this  live  colosse  am  leading. 

Which,  tower-laden,  as  ye  gaze. 

Unfatigued  is  onward  sjieeding. 

Step  by  step,  uji  steepest  ways. 

But,  with  broad  and  rapid  pinion. 

From  the  battlement  on  high. 

Gazing  on  her  wide  dominion, 

Turneth  that  divinity. 

Fame,  around  her,  bright  and  glorious, 
Shining  on  all  sides  one  sees  : 

Yidlory  her  name, — vidlorious 
Queen  of  all  activities. 

Zoilo-Thersites.  Bah ! bah  ! The  very 
time  I’ve  hit ! 

You  all  are  wrong,  no  doubt  of  it ! 

Yet  what  I make  my  special  aim 
Is  victory,  yon  stately  dame. 

She,  with  her  snowy  wings,  esteems 
Herself  an  eagle,  and  still  deems 
That  wheresoe’er  she  bends  her  sight, 

Peoples  and  land  are  hers,  by  right ! 

But,  where  a glorious  deed  is  done. 

My  harness  straight  I buckle  on  ; 

Where  high  is  low,  and  low  is  high. 

The  crooked  straight,  the  straight  awry — 
Then  only  am  I wholly  sound  : 

So  be  it  on  this  earthly  round. 

Herald.  So  take  thou  then,  thou  ragged 
hound. 

From  my  good  staff,  a master-blow  ! 

There  crouch  and  wriggle,  bending  low  ! 

The  double  dwarfish  form,  behold. 

Itself  to  a vile  ball  hath  roll’d  ! 

The  ball  becomes  an  egg  ! — strange  wonder  ! 

It  now  dilates  and  bursts  asunder: 

Thence  falleth  a twin-pair  to  earth. 

Adder  and  bat ; — a hideous  birth  ; 

Forth  in  the  dust  one  creeps,  his  brother 
Doth  darkling  to  the  ceiling  flee ; 

Outside  they  haste  to  join  each  other — 

The  third  I am  not  fain  to  be  ! 

( Murmur. ) 

Come  on  ! Behind  they’re  dancing — No, 
Not  I,  from  hence  I fain  would  go — 

Dost  thou  not  feel  the  speCIral  rout 
Is  flitting  everywhere  about  ? 


94 


It  whistl’d  riglit  above  my  hair — 

Close  to  my  feet, — I felt  it  there — 

No  one  is  hurt — ’tis  not  denied, — 

But  we  have  all  been  terrified — 

Wholly  the  frolic  now  is  ended — • 

’Tis  what  the  brutish  pair  intended.  «. 
Herald.  Since  on  me,  at  festive  masque. 
Laid  hath  been  the  Herald’s  task. 

At  the  doors  I watch  with  care. 

Lest  aught  harmful,  unaware. 

Creep  into  this  joyous  space; 

I nor  waver,  nor  give  place. 

Yet  I fear  the  spedtral  lirood 
Through  the  window  may  intrude; 

And  from  trick  and  sorcery, 

I know  not  how  to  keep  you  free. 

First  the  dwarf  awaken’d  doubt, 

Now  streams  in  the  spedtral  rout. 

I would  show  you  herald-wise. 

What  each  figure  signifies. 

But  what  none  can  comjirehend 
I should  strive  to  teach  in  vain. 

All  must  helj)  me  to  explain  ! — 

'Bhrough  the  crowd  behold  ye  it  wend  ; 

A splendid  car  is  borne  along 
By  a team  of  four  ; the  throng 
Is  not  parted,  nor  doth  reign 
Tumult  round  the  stately  wain  ; 


Bright  it  glitters  from  afar  ; 

Shineth  many  a motley  star. 

As  from  magic-lantern  cast  ; 

On  it  snorts  with  stormful  blast. — 

I needs  must  shudder  ! Clear  the  way  ! 

Bov-Charioteer.  Stay  your  wings,  ye 
coursers,  stay  ! 

Own  tlie  bridle’s  wonted  sway  ! 

Rein  yourselves,  as  you  I rein  ; 

When  I prompt  you,  rush  amain  ! — 

Honor  we  this  festal  ground. 

See  how  jiress  the  folk  around. 

Ring  in  ring,  with  wondering  eyes. — 

Herald,  as  thy  wont  is,  rise; 

From  you  ere  we  flee  afar, 

'fell  our  name,  our  meaning  show  ! 

Since  we  allegories  are, 

’Tis  thy  duty  us  to  know. 

Herald.  I c annot  guess  how  I should  name 
thee ; 

I to  describe  thee  should  prefer. 

Bov-Charioteer.  So,  try  it  then  ! 
Herald.  We  must  proclaim  thee. 

Firstly  to  be  both  young  and  fair; 

A half-grown  boy ; — yet  women  own 
They  fain  would  see  thee  fully  grown; 

A future  wooer  seemest  thou  to  me, 

A gay  deceiver  out  and  out  to  be. 


95 


Bov-Charioteer.  Not  badly  spoken  ! Pray 
proceed  ! 

The  riddle’s  cheerful  meaning  strive  to  read. 
Herald.  Thine  eyes  swart  flash,  thy 
jewell’d  bandlet  glowing 
Starlike,  amid  thy  night-like  hair ; 

And  what  a graceful  robe  dost  wear, 

Down  from  thy  shoulder  to  thy  buskin  flowing. 
With  purple  hem  and  fringes  rare! 

'Phee  as  a girl  one  might  misprize; 

Yet  thou,  for  weal  or  woe,  wouldst  be. 

E’en  now,  of  worth  in  maidens’  eyes; 

Thee  they  would  teach  the  ABC. 

Bov-Charioteer.  And  he  whose  stately 
figure  gleams 

Enthron’d  upon  his  chariot  wain? 

Herald.  A monarch,  rich  and  mild,  he 
seems ; 

Happy  who  may  his  grace  obtain. 

Henceforth  they’ve  naught  for  which  to  strive  ! 
His  glance  discerns  if  aught’s  amiss; 

Greater  his  pleasure  is  to  give. 

Than  to  possess  or  wealth  or  bliss. 

Boy-Charioteer.  Suspend  not  here  thy 
words,  I pray. 

Him  thou  more  fully  must  portray. 

Herald.  The  noble  none  can  paint.  Yet 
there 

Glows  the  round  visage,  hale  and  fair. 

Full  mouth,  and  blooming  cheeks,  descried 
Beneath  the  turban’s  jewell’d  pride; 

What  ease  his  mantle  folds  display  I 
What  of  his  bearing  can  I say? 

As  ruler  seems  he  known  to  me. 

Boy-Charioteer.  Plutus,  the  god  of 
wealth  is  he. 

Hither  he  comes  in  royal  state; 

Of  him  the  emperor’s  need  is  great. 

Herald.  Tell  of  thyself  the  what  and 
how  to  me ! 

Boy-Charioteer.  I am  profusion,  I am 
Poesie ; 

The  bard  am  I,  who  to  perfedlion  tends 
When  freely  he  his  inner  wealth  expends. 

I too  have  riches  beyond  measure. 

And  match  with  Plutus’  wealth  my  treasure; 
For  him  adorn  and  cpiicken  dance  and  show, 
•And  what  he  lacketh,  that  do  I bestow. 

Herald.  Boasting  to  thee  new  charm  im- 
parts. 

Now  show  us  something  of  thine  arts  I 

Boy-Charioteer.  See  me  but  snap  my 
fingers,  lo ! 

-\round  the  car  what  splendors  glow ! 
string  of  pearls  forth  leaiicth  here; 

[ Continually  snapping. 


Take  golden  clasps  for  neck  and  ear ; 

Combs  too,  and  other  precious  things. 

Crowns  without  flaw,  and  jewell’d  rings! 
Flamelets  I scatter  too,  in  play. 

Awaiting  where  they  kindle  may. 

Herald.  How  the  good  people  snatch  and 
seize ! 

Almost  the  donor’s  self  they  squeeze. 

As  in  a dream  he  gems  doth  rain. 

In  the  wide  space  they  snatch  amain. 

But — here  new  juggling  meets  mine  eye; 

W’hat  one  doth  grasp  so  eagerly. 

Doth  prove,  in  sooth,  a sorry  prize; 

Away  from  him  the  treasure  flies; 

The  pearls  are  loosen’d  from  their  band; 

Now  beetles  crawl  within  his  hand; 

He  shakes  them  off,  jioor  fool,  instead. 
Swarming,  they  buzz  around  his  head  ; 

Others,  in  place  of  solid  things. 

Catch  butterflies,  with  lightsome  wings. 
Though  vast  his  promises,  the  knave 
To  them  but  golden  glitter  gave! 

Boy-Charioteer.  Masks,  I remark,  thou 
canst  announce  full  well ; 

Only  to  reach  the  essence  ’neath  the  shell. 

Is  not  the  Herald’s  courtly  task; 

A sharjier  vision  that  dost  ask. 

But  I from  every  quarrel  would  be  free. — 
Master,  I speech  and  question  turn  to  thee. 

[ Turning  to  Plutus. 
The  storm-blast  didst  thou  not  confide 
To  me,  of  this  four-yoked  car? 

Lead  I not  well,  as  thou  dost  guide? 

Where  thou  dost  point,  thence  am  I far? 

Have  I not  known,  on  daring  wing 
For  thee  the  vidlor’s  palm  to  wring? 

Full  often  as  for  thee  I’ve  fought. 

Still  have  I conquer’d  ; and  if  now 
The  laurel  decorates  thy  brow. 

Have  not  my  hand  and  skill  the  chaplet 
wrought  ? 

Plutus.  If  need  there  be,  that  I should 
witness  bear, — 

Soul  of  my  soul,  thee  gladly  I declare: 
According  to  my  will  thou  adfest  ever; 

Art  richer  than  myself  denied. 

To  give  thy  service  its  due  meed. 

Before  all  crowns  the  laurel  wreath  I treasure. 
This  truthful  word  let  all  men  hear: 

My  son  art  thou,  thee  doth  my  soul  hold 
dear. 

Boy-Charioteer.  ( To  the  crowd.) 

Now  of  my  hand  the  choicest  dower. 

I’ve  scatter’d  in  this  festive  hour; 

There  glows  on  this  or  that  one’s  head 
A flame,  which  I abroad  have  shed; 


96 


From  one  to  other  now  it  hies, 

To  this  one  cleaves,  from  that  one  flies. 
Seldom  aloft  its  flames  aspire ; 

Sudden  they  gleam,  with  transient  fire ; 

With  many,  ere  they  know  the  prize, 

It  mournfully  burns  out  and  dies. 

( Clamor  of  Women.) 

He  yonder,  on  the  chariot-van. 

Is,  without  doubt,  a charlatan. 

Behind  him,  crouching,  is  the  clown. 

By  thirst  and  hunger  so  worn  down. 

The  like  was  never  seen  till  now; 

If  pinch’d,  he  would  not  feel,  I trow. 
The  Starveling.  Avaunt,  ye  loathed 
women-kind ! 

With  you  I ne’er  a welcome  find. — 

When  rul’d  the  hearth  your  thrifty  dame, 

Then  Avaritia  was  my  name ; 

Then  throve  our  household  well  throughout ; 
For  much  came  in,  and  naught  went  out ! 
Great  was  my  zeal  for  chest  and  bin — 

And  that,  forsooth,  you  call  a sin ! 

But  in  these  later  years,  no  more 
The  wife  is  thrifty  as  of  yore ; 

She,  like  each  tardy  payer,  owns 
Far  more  desires  than  golden  crowns; 

This  for  her  spouse  much  care  begets ; 
Where’er  he  turneth,  there  are  debts; 

What  she  by  spinning  earns,  she  spends 
On  gay  attire,  and  wanton  friends; 

Better  she  feasts,  and  drinketh  too 
More  wine,  with  her  vile  suitor  crew: 

That  rais’d  for  me  of  gold  the  price. 

Now,  male  of  sex.  I’m  Avarice! 

Leader  of  the  Women.  Dragon  may  still 
with  dragon  spare ; 

It’s  cheat  and  lies  at  last,  no  more ! 

He  comes  to  rouse  the  men ; beware  ! 

Full  troublesome  they  were  before. 

Women.  (All  together.)  The  scarecrow! 
Box  his  ears ! Make  haste  ! 

To  threat  us  does  the  juggler  dare? 

Us  shall  his  foolish  prating  scare? 

The  dragons  are  but  wood  and  paste; 

Press  in  upon  him,  do  not  spare ! 

Herald.  Now,  by  my  staff!  Keep  quiet 
there ! 

Yet  scarcely  needed  is  my  aid. 

See,  in  the  quickly  opened  space. 

How  the  grim  monsters  move  apace ! 

Their  pinions’  double  pair  display’d! 

'I’he  dragons  shake  themselves  in  ire. 
Scale-proof,  their  jaws  exhaling  fire — 

The  crowd  recedes ; clear  is  the  place. 

[Plutus  descends  from  the  chariot. 


Herald.  He  steps  below,  a king  con- 
fess’d ! 

He  nods,  the  dragons  move ; the  chest 
They  from  the  chariot,  in  a trice. 

Have  lower’d,  with  gold  and  avarice; 

Before  his  feet  it  standeth  now  : 

How  done  a marvel  is,  I trow. 

Plutus.  (7h ///<?  Charioteer.)  Now  from 
the  burden  that  oppress’d  thee  here 
Thou’rt  frank  and  free;  away  to  thine  own 
sphere ! 

Here  is  it  not;  distorted,  wild,  grotesque. 
Surrounds  us  here  a motley  arabesque. 

There  fly,  where  on  thy  genius  thou  canst  wait, 

■ Lord  of  thyself;  where  charm  the  good,  the 
fair ; 

I Where  clear  thy  vision  in  the  clear  calm  air ; 
To  solitude — there  thine  own  world  create  ! 
Boy-Charioteer.  Myself  as  trusty  envoy 
I approve ; 

Thee  as  my  nearest  relative  I love. 

Where  thou  dost  dwell,  is  fulness ; where  I 
reign. 

Within  himself  each  feeleth  glorious  gain  ; 
And  ’mid  life’s  contradidlions  wavers  he  : 
Shall  he  resign  himself  to  thee,  to  me  ? 

Thy  votaries  may  idly  rest,  ’tis  true  ; 

Who  follows  me,  hath  always  work  to  do. 

My  deeds  are  not  accomplish’d  in  the  shade, 

I only  breathe,  and  forthwith  am  betray’d. 
Farewell  ! My  bliss  thou  grudgest  not  to  me; 
But  whisper  low,  and  straight  I’m  back  with 
thee.  \^Exit  as  he  came. 

Plutus.  Now  is  the  time  the  treasure  to 
set  free  ! 

The  locks  I strike,  thus  with  the  Herald’s  rod; 
’Tis  open’d  now  ! In  blazing  caldrons,  see. 

It  bubbles  up,  and  shows  like  golden  blood  ; 
Next  crowns,  and  chains,  and  rings,  a precious 
dower  : 

It  swells  and  fusing  threats  the  jewels  to  devour. 
( Alternate  cry  of  the  Crowd.) 

Look  here  ! look  there  ! How  flows  the  treas- 
ure. 

To  the  chest’s  brim  in  ample  measure  ! — 
Vessels  of  gold  are  melting,  near 
Up-surging,  coin’d  rouleaux  appear. 

And  ducats  leap  as  if  impress’d — 

O how  the  vision  stirs  my  breast  ! — 

My  heart’s  desire  now  meets  mine  eye  ! 
They’re  rolling  on  the  floor,  hard  by. — 

'Fo  you  ’tis  proffer’d  ; do  not  wait. 

Stoop  only,  you  are  wealthy  straight ! — 
While,  quick  as  lightning,  we  anon, 
j The  chest  itself  will  seize  upon. 


97 


/’'iiust.  Second  Part. 

%.■  \aA^  a 


Herald.  Ye  fools,  what  ails  you?  What 
your  quest  ? 

’Tis  but  a masquerading  jest. 

I'o-night  no  more  desire  ye  may; 

I'hink  you  that  gold  we  give  away, 

And  things  of  worth  ? For  such  as  you. 

And  at  such  foolish  masking  too. 

E’en  counters  were  too  much  to  pay. 
Blockheads  ! a pleasing  show,  forsooth. 

Ye  take  at  once  for  solid  truth. 

What’s  truth  to  you  ? Delusion  vain 
At  every  turn  ye  clutch  amain. — 

Thou,  Plutus,  hero  of  the  masque, 

'I'his  folk  to  chase,  be  now  thy  task  ! 

Plutus.  Ready  at  hand  thy  staff  I see  ; 

For  a brief  moment  lend  it  me  !• — 

Quickly  in  fire  and  seething  glare 
Fll  dip  it. — Now,  ye  masks,  beware  ! 

It  sputters,  crackles,  flares  outright  ; 

Bravely  the  torch  is  now  alight ; 

And  pressing  round,  who  comes  too  nigh. 

Is  forthwith  scorch’d,  relentle.ssly  ! — 

Now  then  my  circuit  is  begun. 

( Cries  and  Tumult.) 

O misery  ! We  are  undone. — 

Escape,  let  each  escape  who  can  ! 

Back  ! further  back  ! thou  hindmost  man  1 — 
Hot  in  my  face  it  sputter’d  straight — 

Of  the  red  staff  I felt  the  weight — 

We  all,  alas  ! we  all  are  lost ! — 

Back,  back,  thou  masquerading  host! — 

Back,  back,  unthinking  crowd  ! — Ah  me. 

Had  I but  wings,  I hence  would  flee  ! — 
Plutus.  Back  is  the  circle  driven  now ; 
.And  no  one  has  been  sing’d,  I trow. 

The  crowds  give  way. 

Scared,  with  dismay. — 

Yet,  pledge  of  order  and  of  law, 

A ring  invisible  I draw. 

Herald.  Achiev’d  thou  hast  a noble 
deed ; 

For  thy  sage  might  be  thanks  thy  meed  ! 

Plutus.  Yet  needs  there  patience,  noble 
friend  ; 

Still  many  a tumult  doth  impend. 

Avarice.  If  it  .so  please  us,  pleasantly. 

We  on  this  living  ring  may  gaze  around. 

For  w’omen  ever  foremost  will  be  found 
If  aught  allure  the  palate  or  the  eye. 

Not  yet  am  I grown  rusty  quite  ! 

A pretty  face  must  always  please  ; 

.And  since  it  nothing  costs  to-night. 

We’ll  go  a-wooing  at  our  ease. 

Yet  as  in  this  o’ercrow'ded  sphere. 

Words  are  not  audible  to  every  ear. 


' Deftly  I’ll  try, — and  can  but  hope  success — 

In  pantomime  my  meaning  to  express. 

Hand,  foot  and  gesture  will  not  here  suffice. 
Hence  1 must  strive  to  fashion  some  device: 
Like  moisten’d  clay  forthwith  I’ll  knead  the 
gold  ; 

This  metal  into  all  things  we  can  mould. 

Herald.  The  meagre  fool,  what  doeth  he? 
Hath  such  a starveling  humor?  See, 

He  kneadeth  all  the  gold  to  dough, 

Beneath  his  hand  ’tis  pliant  too; 

A’et  howsoe’er  he  squeeze  and  strain. 

Misshapen  it  must  still  remain. 

He  to  the  women  turns,  but  they 
All  scream,  and  fain  would  flee  away. 

With  gestures  of  aversion.  Still 
Ready  the  rascal  seems  for  ill ; 

Happy,  I fear,  himself  he  rates. 

When  decency  he  violates. 

Silence  were  wrong  in  such  a case  ; 

Give  me  my  staff,  him  forth  to  chase  I 

Plutits.  What  threats  us  from  without,  he 
bodeth  not. 

1 Let  him  play  out  his  pranks  a little  longer  ! 

I Room  for  his  jest  will  fail  him  soon,  I wot ; 
Strong  as  is  law',  necessity  is  stronger. 

\^Enter  P'auns,  Satvrs.  Gnomes,  Nymphs, 
etc.,  attendants  on  Pan,  and  announcing 
his  approach. 

( Tumult  and  Song. ) 

j From  forest-vale  and  mountain  height, 

' .Advancing  with  resistless  might. 

The  savage  host,  it  cometh  straight: 
d’heir  mighty  Pan  they  celebrate. 

I They  know,  what  none  beside  can  guess  ; 

Into  the  vacant  ring  they  press. 

[ Plutus.  ATni  and  your  mighty  Pan  I re- 
cognize ! 

Conjoin’d  you’ve  enter’d  on  a bold  emprise. 
Full  well  I know',  what  is  not  known  to  all, 
.And  ope  this  narrow  space,  at  duty’s  call. — 

O may  a hapj)y  Fate  attend  ! 

Wonders  most  strange  may  happen  now; 

They  know  not  where  unto  they  tend ; 
Forward  they  have  not  look’d,  I trow'. 

( Wild  Song.) 

Bedizen’d  people,  glittering  brood! 

They’re  coming  rough,  they’re  coming  rude  ; 
With  hasty  run,  with  lofty  bound, 

Stalwart  and  strong  they  press  around. 

Fauns.  Fauns  advance. 

Their  crisp  locks  bound 
With  oak-leaves  round, — 

In  merry  dance ! 


98 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUST.  STX'ONl)  PART. 


I'AN  AND  HIS  ATTENDANIS. 


A fine  and  sharply  pointed  ear, 

Forth  from  their  clustering  locks  doth  peer; 

A stumpy  nose,  with  breadth  of  face — 

These  forfeit  not  a lady’s  grace: 

If  but  his  paw  the  Faun  advance. 

Not  lightly  will  the  fairest  shun  the  dance. 

S.-^TYR.  The  Satyr  now  comes  hopping  in. 
With  foot  of  goat,  and  withered  shin; 

These  sinewy  must  be  and  thin. 

In  chamois-guise,  on  mountain  height, 

Around  to  gaze  is  his  delight ; 

In  freedom’s  air,  with  freshness  rife, 

Child  he  despiseth,  man  and  wife. 

Who,  ’mid  the  valley’s  smoke  and  steam. 

That  they  too  live,  contented  dream; 

On  those  pure  heights,  sequester’d,  lone. 

The  upper  world  is  his  alone ! 

Gnomes.  Tripping,  here  comes  a tiny  crew. 
They  like  not  keeping  two  and  two; 

In  mos.sy  dress,  with  lamplet  clear. 
Commingling  swiftly,  they  career. 

Where  for  himself  his  task  each  plies. 
Swarming  they  glitter,  emmet-wise ; 

•\nd  ever  busy,  move  about. 

With  ceaseless  bustle  in  and  out. 

We  the  “Good  Folk’’  as  kindred  own, 

•\s  rock-chiriirgists  well  we’re  known; 

Cupping  the  lofty  hills,  we  drain. 

With  cunning,  from  each  well-fill’d  vein. 

The  metals,  which  aloft  we  pile. 

Shouting,  Good  luck!  Good  luck!  the  while: 
Kindness  at  bottom  we  intend ; 

Good  men  we  evermore  befriend. 

Yet  to  the  light  we  gold  unseal. 

That  men  therewith  may  pimp  and  steal  ; 

Nor  to  the  proud,  who  murder  plann’d 
Wholesale,  shall  fail  the  iron  brand; 

These  three  commands  who  hath  transgress’d. 
Will  take  small  reckoning  of  the  rest; 

Nathless  for  that  we’re  not  to  blame: 

Patient  we  are,  be  ye  the  same  ! 

Giants.  The  wild  men,  such  in  sooth  our 
name. 

Upon  the  Hartzberg  known  to  fame. 

Naked,  in  ancient  vigor  strong. 

Pell-mell  we  come,  a giant  throng; 

With  pine-stem  grasp’d  in  dexter  hand. 

And  round  the  loins  a padded  band. 

Apron  of  leaf  and  bough,  uncouth, — 

Such  guards  the  pope  owns  not,  in  sooth. 
Chorus  of  Nymphs.  ( They  surround  the 
y:;rf‘at  Pan.J  He  draweth  near  ! 

In  mighty  Pan 
The  All  we  scan 
Of  this  world-sphere. 


All  ye  of  gayest  mood  advance. 

And  him  surround,  in  sportive  dance! 

For  since  he  earnest  is  and  kind, 

Joy  everywhere  he  fain  would  find; 

E’en  ’neath  the  blue  o’erarching  sky, 

He  watcheth  still,  with  wakeful  eye  ; 

Purling  to  him  the  brooklet  flows,^ 

And  zephyrs  lull  him  to  repose ; 

And  when  he  slumbers  at  mid-day. 

Stirs  not  a leaf  upon  the  spray ; 
Health-breathing  plants,  with  balsams  rare. 
Pervade  the  still  and  silent  air ; 

The  nymph  no  more  gay  vigil  keeps, 

.^\nd  where  she  standeth,  there  she  sleeps. 

But  if,  at  unexpedted  hour. 

His  voice  resounds  with  mighty  power, 

Like  thunder,  or  the  roaring  sea. 

Then  knoweth  none,  where  he  may  flee; 

Panic  the  valiant  host  assails. 

The  hero  in  the  tumult  quails. 

Then  honor  to  whom  honor’s  due  ! 

And  hail  to  him,  who  leads  us  unto  you ! 

Deputation  of  (To  the  great  Pan.J 

When  a treasure,  richly  shining. 

Winds  through  clefts  its  thread-like  wa\’. 
Sole  the  cunning  rod,  divining. 

Can  its  labyrinth  display. 

Troglodytes,  in  caves  abiding. 

We  our  sunless  homes  vault  o’er; 

Thou,  ’mid  day’s  pure  airs  presiding. 
Graciously  thy  gifts  dost  pour. 

Close  at  hand,  a fount  of  treasure 
We  have  found,  a wondrous  vein; — 
Promising  in  fullest  measure. 

What  we  scarce  might  hope  to  gain. 

Perfedl  thou  alone  canst  make  it; 

Every  treasure  in  thy  hand. 

Is  a world-wide  blessing;  take  it. 

Thine  it  is.  Sire,  to  command! 

Plutus.  ( To  the  Wv.kma).  ) Our  self-pos- 
session now  must  be  display’d. 

And  come  what  may,  we  must  be  undismayed ; 
Still  hast  thou  shown  a strong,  courageous  soul. 
A dreadful  incident  will  soon  betide; 

’Twill  be  by  world  and  after-world  denied; 
Inscribe  it  triilv  in  thy  protocol! 

Herald.  ( Grasping  the  sta  ff  which  Plutus 
holds  in  nis  hand.)  The  dwarfs  condiidl 
the  mighty  Pan 

Softly  the  source  of  fire  to  scan  ; 

It  surges  from  the  gulf  profound. 

Then  downward  plunges  ’neath  the  ground  ; 


99 


AVhile  dark  the  mouth  stands,  gaping  wide, 
Once  more  uprolls  the  fiery  tide. 

'I'he  mighty  Pan  stands  well-content. 
Rejoicing  in  the  wondrous  sight. 

While  pearl-foam  drizzles  left  and  right. 
How  may  he  trust  such  element ! 

Bending,  he  stoops  to  look  within. — 

But  now  his  beard  hath  fallen  in  ! — 

Who  may  he  be,  with  shaven  chin? 

His  hand  ( onceals  it  from  our  eyes. — 

Now  doth  a dire  mishap  arise; 

His  beard  takes  fire  and  backward  flies; 
Wreath,  head  and  breast  are  all  ablaze; 

Joy  is  transformed  to  dire  amaze. — 

To  (luench  the  fire  his  followers  run  ; 

Free  from  the  flames  remaineth  none; 

Still  as  they  strike  from  side  to  side. 

New  flames  are  kindled  far  and  wide; 
Envelop’d  in  the  fiery  shroud. 

Burns  now  the  masquerading  crowd. 

But  what’s  the  tale  that’s  rumor’d  here. 
From  mouth  to  mouth,  from  ear  to  ear! 

O night,  for  aye  with  sorrow  fraught, 
d’o  us  what  mischief  hast  thou  brought ! 
d'he  coming  morn  will  tidings  voice. 

At  which,  in  sooth,  will  none  rejoice. 

From  every  side  they  cry  amain, 

“ 'I'he  Emperor  suffers  grievous  pain  I” 

O were  some  other  tidings  true  ! — 

The  Emperor  burns,  his  escort  too. 
Accurs’d  be  they,  for  evermore. 

Who  him  seduc’d,  with  noisy  roar, 


Abroad,  begirt  with  pitchy  bough, 

'I’o  roam,  for  general  overthrow  I 
()  youth,  O youth,  and  wilt  thou  never 
To  joy  assign  its  fitting  bound? 

0 Majesty,  with  reason  never 
Will  thy  omnipotence  be  crown’d? 

The  mimic  forest  hath  caught  fire ; 
Tongue-like  the  flame  mounts  high  and  higher 
Now  on  the  wood-bound  roof  it  plays, 

And  threats  one  universal  blaze  ! 

O’erflows  our  cup  of  suffering; 

1 know  not,  who  may  rescue  bring ; 

Imperial  pomp,  so  rich  o’er  night. 

An  ash-heap  lies  in  morning’s  light. 

Plutus.  Long  enough  hath  terror  sway’d 
Hither  now  be  help  convey’d. 

Strike,  thou  hallow’d  staff,  the  ground, 

I'ill  earth  tremble  and  resound  ! 

Cooling  vapors  everywhere 
Fill  the  wide  and  spacious  air  ! 
Moisture-teeming  mist  and  cloud 
Draw  anear,  and  us  o’ershroud  ; 

Veil  the  fiery  tumult,  veil  1 
Curling,  drizzling,  breathing  low, 

Gracious  cloudlets  hither  sail. 

Shedding  down  the  gentle  rain  ! 

To  extinguish,  to  allay. 

Ye,  the  assuagers,  strive  amain  ; 

Into  summer-lightning’s  glow 
Change  our  empty  fiery  play  ! — 

Threaten  spirits  us  to  hurt. 

Magic  must  its  power  assert. 


lOO 


Pleasure-  Garden. 

Morning  sun. 

[ The  Emperor,  his  court,  men  and  women  ; 
Faust,  Mephistopheles  dressed  becom- 
ingly,  in  the  usual  fashion  ; both  kneel. 

Faust.  The  flaming  juggler’s  play  dost 
pardon,  Sire? 

Emperor.  I of  such  sports  full  many  should 
desire. — 

I saw  myself  within  a glowing  sphere  ; 

Almost  it  seem’d  as  if  I Pluto  were; 

.\  rock  abyss  there  lay,  with  fire  aglow. 
Gloomy  as  night ; from  many  a gulf  below. 
Seething,  a thousand  savage  flames  ascend. 
And  in  a fiery  vault  together  blend ; 

Up  to  the  highest  dome  their  tongues  were 
toss’ d. 

Which  ever  was,  and  evermore  was  lost. 

In  the  far  space,  through  spiral  shafts  of  flame, 
Peoples  I saw,  in  lengthen’d  lines  who  came; 
In  the  wide  circle  forward  press’d  the  crowd. 
And  as  their  wont  hath  been,  in  homage 
bow’d  ; 

I seem’d,  surrounded  by  my  courtly  train. 

O’er  thousand  Salamanders  king  to  reign. 

Mephis.  Such  art  thou.  Sire  ! For  thee 
each  element 

To  own  as  absolute  is  well  content. 

Obedient  thou  hast  jiroven  fire  to  be. 

Where  it  is  wildest,  leap  into  the  sea — 

And  scarce  thy  foot  the  pearl-strewn  floor  shall 
tread, 

A glorious,  billowy  dome  o’ervaults  thy  head ; 
^Vavelets  of  tender  green  thou  seest  swelling. 
With  purple  edge,  to  form  thy  beauteous  dwell- 
ing, 

Round  thee,  the  central  point;  where  thou 
dost  wend. 

At  every  step,  thy  palace  homes  attend ; 


The  very  walls,  in  life  rejoicing,  flow 
With  arrowy  swiftness,  surging  to  and  fro  ; 
Sea-marvels  to  the  new  and  gentle  light  repair ; 
They  dart  along,  to  enter  none  may  dare  ; 
There  sports,  with  scales  of  gold,  the  bright- 
hued  snake. 

Gapes  the  fell  shark,  his  jaws  thy  laughter 
wake : 

Howe’er  thy  court  may  round  thee  now  de- 
light. 

Such  throng  as  this,  before  ne’er  met  thy 
sight. 

Nor  long  shalt  sever’d  be  from  the  most  fair; 
The  curious  Nereids,  to  thy  dwelling  rare, 
’Mid  the  eternal  freshness,  shall  draw  nigh; 
The  youngest,  greedy  like  the  fish,  and  shy; 
The  elder  prudent.  Thetis  hears  the  news. 
Nor  to  the  second  Peleus  will  refuse 
Or  hand  or  lip. — Olympos’  wide  domain — 
Emperor.  I leave  to  thee,  thou  o’er  the  air 
mayst  reign  ; 

Full  early  every  one  must  mount  that  throne. 
Mephis.  Earth,  noblest  Sire  ! already  thou 
dost  own. 

Emperor.  Hither  what  happy  Fate,  with 
kindness  fraught. 

Thee  from  the  thousand  nights  and  one  hath 
brought ! 

If  thou,  like  Scheherazade,  prolific  art. 

To  thee  my  highest  favor  I’ll  impart ; 

Be  ever  near  when,  as  is  oft  the  case. 

Most  irksome  is  our  world  of  commonplace ! 

Marshal.  (Entering  in  haste.) 

Your  Highness,  never  thought  I in  my  life 
Tidings  to  give,  with  such  good  fortune  rife 
As  these  which,  in  thy  ])resence,  cheer 
My  raptur’d  heart,  absolv’d  from  fear  ; 

All  reckonings  paid,  from  debt  we’re  eased : — 
The  usurer’s  clutches  are  appeas’d — • 

From  such  hell-torment  I am  free  ! 

In  Heaven  can  none  more  cheerful  be. 


lOI 


Commander-in-Chief.  (Follows  hastily.) 
Paid  in  advance  the  soldiers’  due, 

Now  the  whole  army’s  pledged  anew. 

Blood  dances  in  the  trooper’s  veins; 

Vintner  and  damsel  reap  their  gains. 

Emperor.  How  freely  now  your  breast  doth 
heave  ! 

The  marks  of  care  your  visage  leave  ! 

How  hastily  you  enter  ! 

Treasurer.  (Entering.)  Sire,  proceed 
These  men  to  question  who  have  done  the 
deed. 

Faust.  (To  the  Chancellor.)  To  you  it 
doth  belong  the  case  to  state. 

Chancellor.  ( Who  advances  slowly.) 

In  my  old  days  I am  with  joy  elate ! 

So  hear  and  see  this  fortune-weighted  scroll, 
Which  hath  to  haj)piness  transform’d  our  dole: 

( He  reads.) 

“To  all  whom  it  concerneth,  be  it  known: 
^\'ho  owns  this  note  a thousand  crowns  doth 
own. 

To  him  assur’d,  as  certain  pledge,  there  lies. 
Beneath  the  Emperor’s  land,  a boundless  prize ; 
It  is  decreed,  this  wealth  without  delay 
To  rai.se,  therewith  the  promis’d  sum  to  pay.” 

Emperor.  Crime  I suspedl,  some  huge  de- 
ceit ! 

The  Emireror’s  name  who  here  doth  counter- 
feit ? 

Unpunish’d  still  remains  such  breach  of  right? 

Treasurer.  Remember,  Sire  ! Thyself  but 
ye.sternight 

Didst  sign  the  note. — Thou  stoodst  as  mighty 
Pan  ; 

Then  spake  the  Chancellor,  whose  words  thus 
ran  : 

“This  festive  pleasure  for  thyself  obtain. 

Thy  peo])le’s  weal,  with  a few  pen-strokes 
gain  !” 

'I'hese  mad’st  thou  clearly;  thousand-fold  last 
night 

Have  artists  mnltiplied  what  thou  didst  write; 
.\nd  that  to  each  alike  might  fall  the  aid. 

To  stamp  the  series,  we  have  not  delay’d. 

Ten,  thirty,  fifty,  hundreds  at  a stroke. 

Yon  cannot  guess,  how  it  rejoic’d  the  folk  : 
Behold  your  town,  mouldering  half  dead  that 
lay, 

How  full  of  life  and  bounding  joy  to-day  ! 
Long  as  thy  name  hath  bless’d  the  world,  till 
now 

So  gladly  was  it  ne’er  beheld,  I trow. 

The  Alphabet  is  now  redundant  grown  ; 

Each  in  this  sign  finds  happiness  alone. 


Emperor.  My  people  take  it  for  true 
gold,  you  say? 

In  camp,  at  court,  it  passes  for  full  pay  ? 

Much  as  1 wonder,  it  I must  allow. 

Marshal.  To  stay  the  flying  leaves  were 
hopeless  now ; 

With  speed  of  lightning  all  abroad  they  float: 
The  changers’  banks  stand  open;  every  note 
Is  honored  there  with  silver  and  with  gold  ; 
Discount  dedudted,  if  the  truth  were  told. 

To  butcher,  baker,  vintner,  thence  they  fare ; 
With  half  the  world  is  feasting  their  sole  care; 
The  other  half,  new-ve.stur’d,  bravely  shows; 
The  mercer  cuts  away,  the  tailor  sews. 

In  cellars  still  “The  Emperor!”  they  toast. 
While,  amid  clattering  plates,  they  boil  and 
roast. 

Mephis.  Alone  who  treads  the  terraced 
promenade. 

Sees  there  the  fair  one,  splendidly  array’d; 
One  eye  the  peacock’s  fan  conceals;  the’while 
This  note  in  view,  she  lures  us  with  her  smile. 
And  swifter  than  through  eloquence  or  wit. 
Love’s  richest  favor  may  be  won  by  it. 

One’s  self  with  purse  and  scrip  one  need  not 
tease. 

Hid  in  the  breast,  a note  is  borne  with  ease. 
And  with  the  billet-doux  is  coupled  there ; 

The  priest  conveys  it  in  his  book  of  prayer ; 
The  soldier,  that  his  limbs  may  be  more  free. 
Quickly  his  girdle  lightens.  Pardon  me. 

Your  Majesty,  if  the  high  work  I seem. 
Dwelling  on  these  details,  to  disesteem. 

Faust.  This  superfluity  of  wealth,  that  deep 
Imprison’d  in  its  soil  thy  land  doth  keep. 

Lies  all  unus’d ; wide-reaching  thought  pro- 
found 

Is  of  such  treasure  but  a sorry  bound ; 

In  loftiest  flight,  fancy  still  strives  amain 
To  reach  its  limit,  but  still  strives  in  vain — 
Yet  minds  who  dare  behind  the  veil  to  press. 
In  the  unbounded,  boundless  faith  possess. 
Mephis.  Such  paper,  in  the  place  of  pearls 
and  gold. 

Convenient  is,  we  know  how  much  we  hold; 
No  need  for  change  or  barter,  each  at  will 
Of  love  and  wine  may  henceforth  drink  his  fill. 
If  coin  is  needed,  stands  the  changer  nigh, 

' If  there  it  faileth,  straight  the  shovel  ply ; 

! Goblet  and  chain  at  audtion  fetch  their  price; 
The  paper,  forthwith  cancell’d,  in  a trice 
The  sceptic  shames,  who  us  did  erst  deride ; 
The  people,  used  to  it,  wish  naught  beside: 

So  henceforth,  through  the  realm,  there’s 
goodly  store. 

Of  jewels,  gold,  and  paper,  evermore. 


102 


Emperor.  You  this  high  aid  have  render’d 
to  our  state ; 

Great  is  the  service,  be  the  meed  as  great ! 

Our  realm’s  subsoil  confide  we  to  your  care; 
Best  guardians  of  the  treasure  buried  there. 
Full  well  ye  know  the  vast,  well-guarded  hoard. 
And  when  men  dig,  so  be  it  at  your  word ! 

To  Faust  and  the  Treasurer. 

Ally  yourselves,  ye  masters  of  our  treasure, 
d'he  honors  of  your  place  fulfil  with  pleasure. 
There  where  together  join’d  in  blest  content. 
The  upper  with  the  under  world  is  blent ! 

Treasurer.  Not  the  most  distant  strife 
shall  us  divide ; 

As  colleague  be  the  conjuror  at  my  side. 

\_Exit  with  Faust. 

Emperor.  If  I at  court  each  man  with 
gifts  endow. 

Whereto  he’ll  use  them,  let  each  tell  me  now. 

Page.  ( Receivitig. ) Merry  I’ll  be,  and 

taste  life’s  pleasant  things. 

Another.  (The  same.)  I for  my  sweet- 
heart will  buy  chain  and  rings. 

Chamberlain.  (Accepting.)  Wine  twice 
as  good  from  this  time  forth  I’ll  drink. 


Another.  ( The  saine.)  The  dice  already 
in  my  pocket  clink. 

Banneret.  ( Thoughtfully.)  My  field  and 
castle  I from  debt  will  free. 

Another.  ( The  same.)  I’ll  lay  my  treas- 
ure in  my  treasury. 

Emperor.  Courage  I hoped,  and  joy,  for 
new  emprise — 

But  whoso  knows  you,  straight  will  recognize; 

I mark  it  well,  though  wealth  be  multiplied, 

Just  what  ye  were,  the  same  will  ye  abide! 

Fool.  (Approaching.)  Favors  you  scatter ; 
grant  me  some,  I pray  I 

Emperor.  What,  living  yet?  Thou’lt 
drink  them  soon  away. 

Fool.  These  magic  leaves ! I comprehend 
not  quite — 

Emperor.  That  I believe;  them  thou’lt 
not  spend  aright. 

Fool.  There,  others  drop — I know  not 
what  to  do — - 

Emperor.  Take  them!  They’ve  fallen  to 
thy  share.  Adieu ! \^Exit. 

Fool.  Five  thousand  crowns  in  hand ! 
can  it  be  true? 


103 


Mephis.  Thou  two-legg’d  paunch,  art  thou 
then  risen  anew? 

Fool.  As  oft  before,  ne’er  happily  as  now. 

Mephis.  So  great  thy  joy,  it  makes  thee 
sweat,  I trow. 

Fool.  Is  this  indeed  worth  money?  art 
thou  sure? 

Mephis.  What  throat  and  paunch  desire  it 
will  procure. 

Fool.  Can  I then  field,  and  house,  and 
cattle  buy? 

Mephis.  Of  course!  Bid  only,  thee  it  will 
not  fail. 

Fool.  Castle  with  forest,  chase,  and  fish- 
])ond? 

Mephis.  Ay  I 

Thee  as  your  worship  I should  like  to  hail! 

Fool.  As  land-owner  I’ll  rock  myself  ere 
eve ! [A'.r/V.  | 

Mephis.  In  our  fool’s  wit  who  will  not 
now  believe? 


Dark  Gallery. 

Faust.  Mephistopheles. 

Mephis.  Wdiy  drag  me  these  dark  corridors 
along? 

Within  hast  not  enough  of  sport? 

Occasion  ’mid  the  motley  throng 
For  jest  and  lie,  hast  not  at  court? 

Faust.  Speak  not  of  that ; in  days  of  old 
hast  thou 

Outworn  it  to  the  very  soles.  But  now, 
d’hy  shuffling  is  a mere  pretext  • 

How  to  evade  my  questions.  Sore  perplex’d, 
I know  not  how  to  a6t,  or  what  to  do; 

'I'he  marshal  urges  me,  the  steward  too, 

The  Emperor  wills  it — hence  it  straight  must 
be — 

Wills  Helena  and  Paris  here  to  see ; 

Of  man  and  womankind  the  true  ideal. 

He  fain  would  view,  in  forms  distindl  and  real. 
Quick  to  the  work  ! My  word  I may  not  break. 
Mephis.  Such  promise  it  was  weak,  nay, 
mad  to  make. 

Faust.  Comrade,  thou  hast  not  thought,  I 
trow, 

Whither  these  arts  ®f  thine  must  lead  ; 

First  we  have  made  him  rich,  and  now 
Him  to  amuse  we  must  proceed. 

Mephis.  Thou  think’st  no  sooner  said  than 
done ; 

Here  before  steejier  steps  we  stand, 

.•V  foreign  realm  must  here  be  won. 

New  debts  wilt  add  to  those  of  old. 


With  the  same  ease  dost  think  I can  command 
Helen,  as  phantom-notes  evoke  for  gold  ! 

With  wizard,  witchery,  or  ghostly  ghost. 

Or  goiter’d  dwarf.  I’m  ready  at  my  post. 

But  Devil’s  darlings,  though  we  mayn’t  abuse 
them. 

Yet  cannot  we  as  heroines  produce  them. 

Faust.  Still  liarping  on  the  ancient  lyre! 
The  fatlier  thou  of  hindrances; — with  thee 
We  needs  must  fall  into  uncertainty; 

For  each  expedient  thou  dost  claim  new  hire ! 
With  little  muttering,  I know,  ’tis  done; 

Ere  one  looks  round,  thou’ It  bring  them  to  the 
spot. 

Mephis.  The  Heathen-folk  I’m  glad  to  let 
alone. 

In  their  own  hell  is  cast  their  lot ; 

Yet  are  there  means — 

Faust.  Sjieak  quickly,  naught  withhold  ! 
Mephis.  Loth  am  I higher  secrets  to  un- 
fold. 

In  solitude,  where  reigns  nor  space  nor  time. 
Are  goddesses  enthron’d  from  early  prime; 
’Tis  hard  to  sjieak  of  beings  so  sublime — 

The  Mothers  are  they. 

Faust.  ( Terrified.)  Mothers ! 

Mephis.  Tremblest  thou? 

Faust.  The  Mothers  ! Mothers ! strange  it 
sounds,  I trow  ! 

Mephis.  And  is  so:  Goddesses,  to  men 
unknown. 

And  by  us  nam’d  unwillingly,  I own. 

Their  home  to  reach,  full  deeply  must  thou 
mine. 

That  we  have  need  of  them,  the  fault  is  thine! 
Faust.  The  way? 

Mephis.  Noway;  to  the  untrodden  none. 
Not  to  be  trodden,  neither  to  be  won 
By  prayer!  Art  ready  for  the  great  emprise  ? 
No  locks  are  there,  no  bolts  thy  way  to  bar; 
By  solitudes  shalt  thou  be  whirl’d  afar: 

Such  void  and  solitude  canst  realize? 

Faust.  To  spare  such  speeches,  it  were 
well  ! 

They  of  the  witches’  kitchen  smell. 

And  of  a time  long  past  and  gone. 

To  know  the  world  have  I not  sought  ? 

The  empty  learn’d,  the  empty  taught? — 
Spake  I out  plainly,  as  in  reason  bound. 

Then  doubly  loud  the  paradox  would  sound; 
By  Fortune’s  adverse  buffets  overborne. 

To  solitude  I fled,  to  wilds  forlorn. 

And  not  in  utter  loneliness  to  live. 

Myself  at  last  did  to  the  Devil  give  ! 

Mephis.  And  hadst  thou  swum  to  ocean’s 
utmost  verge. 


104 


And  there  the  shoreless  infinite  beheld, 

There  hadst  thou  seen  surge  rolling  upon 
surge, 

Though  dread  of  coming  doom  thy  soul  had 
quell’d, 

Thou  hadst  seen  something ; — dolphins  thou 
hadst  seen. 

Cleaving  the  silent  sea’s  pellucid  green. 

And  flying  cloud  hadst  seen,  sun,  moon  and 
star ; 

Naught,  in  the  everlasting  void  afar. 

Wilt  see,  nor  hear  thy  footfall’s  sound. 

Nor  for  thy  tread  find  solid  ground  ! 

Faust.  Thou  speakest  as  of  mystagogues 
the  first. 

True  neophytes  who  gulled — only  revers’d  : 

I to  vacuity  by  thee  am  sent. 

That  art  as  well  as  strength  I may  augment ; 
Thou  wouldest,  like  the  cat,  make  use  of  me. 
The  chestnuts  from  the  fire  to  snatch  for  thee. 
We’ll  fathom  it ! come  on,  nor  look  behind  ! 
In  this  thy  naught,  the  All  I hope  to  find. 

Mephis.  Before  we  part,  thy  bearing  I com- 
mend ; 

I see,  the  Devil  thou  dost  comprehend. 

Here,  take  this  key  ! 

Faust.  That  little  thing  ! 

Mephis.  First  hold  it  fast,  not  lightly 
valuing  ! 

Faust.  It  waxes  in  my  hand  ! It  flashes, 
glows  ! 

Mephis.  Soon  shalt  thou  mark  what  vir- 
tue it  bestows. 

The  key  will  scent  the  very  place  you  need  ; 
Follow,  thee  to  the  Mothers  it  will  lead. 


[ Faust.  (Shuddering.)  The  Mothers!  Like 
I a blow  it  strikes  mine  ear  1 
j What  is  this  word,  it  troubles  me  to  hear? 
Mephis.  So  narrow-minded,  scar’d  by  each 
new  word  ! 

Wilt  only  hear,  what  hast  already  heard  ? 
Inur’d  to  marvels,  thee  let  naught  astound  ; 

Be  not  disturb’d,  how  strange  soe’er  the  sound  ! 

Fau.st.  My  weal  I seek  not  in  torpidity; 
Humanity’s  best  part  in  awe  doth  lie  : 

Howe’er  the  world  the  sentiment  disown. 

Once  seiz’d — we  deeply  feel  the  vast,  the  un- 
known. 

Mephis.  Sink  then  ! Arise  ! This  also  I 
might  say  : — 

’Tis  all  the  same.  Escaping  from  the  real. 
Seek  thou  the  boundless  realm  of  the  ideal. 
Delight  thyself  in  forms  long  pass’d  away ! 
The  train,  like  cloud-proce,ssion,  glides  along; 
Swing  thou  the  key,  hold  off  the  shadowy 
throng  ! 

Faust.  (Inspired.')  Good  I firmly  grasp- 
ing it,  new  strength  is  mine. 

My  breast  expands  ! Now  for  the  great  de- 
sign ! 

Mephis.  A glowing  tripod  teaches  thee 
thou  hast 

The  deep  attain’d,  the  lowest  deep,  at  last : 
There,  by  its  light  the  Mothers  thou  wilt  see  ; 
Some  sit,  while  others,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Or  stand,  or  walk  : formation,  transformation. 
Of  mind  etern,  eternal  recreation  ! 

While  forms  of  being  round  them  hover;  thee 
Behold  they  not,  phantoms  alone  they  see. 
Take  courage,  fur  the  danger  is  not  slight. 

105 


Straight  to  the  tripod  press  thou  on,  be  brave, 
And  touch  it  with  the  key — 

[Faust,  with  the  key,  assumes  an  attitude  of 
determined  authority. 

Mei’His.  ( Observing  him.)  So,  that  is 
right ! 

It  cleaves  to  thee,  it  follows  like  a slave  ; 
Calmly  dost  mount,  fortune  doth  thee  upbear. 
Back  art  thou  with  it,  ere  they  are  aware. 

And  hither  hast  thou  brought  it;  by  its  might. 
Hero  mayst  call,  and  heroine  from  night; 

The  first  to  venture  in  such  enterprise  ; 

”ris  done — with  thee  the  bold  achievement 
lies ; 

And  then  by  spells,  to  sorcery  allow’d. 

To  gods  shall  be  transform’d  the  incense- 
cloud. 

Faust.  And  now  what  next  ? 

Mephis.  Downward  thy  being  strain. 

Stamping  descend,  stamping  thou’lt  rise  again. 

[Faust  stamps  and  sinks. 
In  his  behoof  if  worketh  but  the  key  ! 
Whether  he  will  return,  I’m  fain  to  see. 


Hat.l.  (Brilliantly  lighted.) 

Emperor  and  Princes : The  Court  in  movement. 

CuAMRERLAIN.  (To  M EPH ISTOPHELES.) 
You’re  still  our  debtors  for  the  spirit-show; 

To  work!  The  Emperor  doth  impatient  grow. 
Steward.  His  Highness  even  now  hath 
question’d  me ; 

Delay  not,  nor  affront  his  Majesty! 

Mephis.  My  comrade’s  for  that  very  pur- 
pose gone ; 

How  to  commence  he  knows  ; he  labors  on. 
Secluded  in  his  study,  calm  and  still. 

With  mind  intensely  strung  ; for  who  the  prize. 
Ideal  beauty,  would  evoke  at  will. 

Needs  highest  art,  the  magic  of  the  wise. 
Steward.  To  us  it  matters  not  what  arts 
you  need  ; 

The  Emperor  wills  that  ye  forthwith  proceed. 

A Blonde.  (To  Mephistopheles.) 

One  word,  good  sir  ! My  visage  now  is  clear — 
It  is  not  so  when  baleful  summer’s  here : 

Then  sprout  a hundred  freckles,  brown  and  red. 
Which,  to  my  grief,  the  white  skin  overspread. 
A cure ! 

Mephis.  ’Tis  pity,  face  so  fair  to  see. 

In  May  like  panther’s  cub  should  mottled  be  ! 
Take  spawn  of  frog,  and  tongue  of  toad,  the 
twain 

Under  the  fullest  moon  distil  with  care; 


Lay  on  the  mixture,  when  the  moon  doth 
wane — 

The  spring  arrives,  no  blemishes  are  there. 
Brunette.  'I'o  fawn  upon  )ou,  how  the 
crowds  advance ; 

A remedy  I ask  ! A frozen  foot 
Hinders  me  sorely  when  I walk  or  dance; 
Awkward  my  movement  e’en  when  I salute. 
Mephis.  A single  tread  allow  me  with  my 
foot ! 

Brunette.  Well,  betwixt  lovers  that  might 
come  to  pass — 

Mephis.  A deeper  meaning,  child,  my  foot- 
print has ; 

Like  unto  like,  in  sickness  is  the  rede ; 

Foot  healeth  foot ; with  every  limb  ’tis  so. 
Draw  near  ! Give  heed  ! My  tread  return  not. 

Brunette.  (Screaming.)  Woe! 

Ah,  woe  ! It  burns ! A hard  tread  that  indeed. 
Like  horse’s  hoof! 

Mephis.  Receive  thy  cure  as  meed. 

Now  mayst  thou  dance  at  jileasure  ; and  salute. 
Beneath  the  festal  board,  thy  lover’s  foot. 
Lady.  (Pressing fortvard.)  Make  way  for 
me,  too  grievous  is  my  smart. 

Seething,  it  rankles  in  my  deepest  heart : 

Bliss  in  my  looks  he  sought  till  yesterday — 
With  her  he  talks,  and  turns  from  me  away  ! 
Mephis.  The  case  is  grave,  but  this  my 
lore  receive : 

Thou  to  his  side  must  stealthily  make  way; 
Take  thou  this  coal,  a mark  upon  his  sleeve. 
His  cloak,  or  shoulder  make,  as  hajipen  may — 
His  heart  repentant  will  be  thine  once  more; 
The  coal  thou  straight  must  swallow;  after  it. 
No  water  near  thy  lip,  no  wine,  jiermit — 

This  very  night  he’ll  sigh  before  thy  door. 
Lady.  It  is  not  poison  ? 

Mephis.  (Offended.)  Honor  where ’tis  due  ! 
You  for  such  coal  much  ground  must  wander 
o’er ; 

It  cometh  from  a pyre,  that  we  of  yore 
More  fiercely  stirr’d  than  now  we  do. 

Page.  I love ; as  still  unripe  they  scorn 
my  youth  ! 

Mephis.  (Aside.)  I know  not  whom  to 
listen  to,  in  sooth. 

[ To  the  Page.J 

Not  on  the  youngest  set  your  happiness; 

Those  more  in  years  your  merits  will  confess. 

[ Others  press  up  to  him. 
Others  are  coming  ! What  a fearful  rout  ! 
Myself  with  truth  I must  at  last  help  out — 
The  sorriest  shift  ! Great  is  the  need  ! Ah  me ! 
O Mothers,  Mothers  ! Only  Faust  set  free. 

'(Looking  round. 


io6 


The  lights  are  burning  dimly  in  the  hall ; 

At  once  the  court  is  moving,  one  and  all ; 
Advancing  in  due  order  them  I see, 

Through  long  arcade  and  distant  gallery  ; 

Now  in  the  old  Baronial  hall,  the  train 
Assemble,  them  it  scarcely  can  contain  ; 

Its  ample  walls  rare  tapestries  enrich. 

While  armor  decks  each  corner,  every  niche  ; 
Here  magic-words,  methinks,  are  needed  not. 
Ghosts,  of  their  own  accord,  would  haunt  this 
spot. 


Baronial  Hall.  ( Dimly  illuminated.) 
Emperor  and  Court  have  entered. 

Herald.  Mine  ancient  usage,  to  announce 
the  play. 

The  spirits’  secret  working  mars;  in  vain 
The  surging  tumult  to  ourselves,  to-day. 

Would  we,  on  reasonable  grounds,  explain. 
Seats  are  arrang’d,  ready  is  every  chair ; 

The  Emperor  sits  before  the  wall,  and  there. 
On  tapestry  in  comfort  may  behold 
The  battles  of  the  glorious  days  of  old. 

All  now  are  seated ; prince  and  court  around ; 
While  crowded  benches  fill  the  hinder  ground  ; 
Your  lovers  too,  in  these  dark  hours,  will  find. 
Beside  their  sweethearts,  places  to  their 
mind. 

So  now  we’re  seated,  ready  for  the  play; 

'Fhe  phantoms  may  appear,  without  delay  ! 

[ Trumpets. 

Astrologer.  Now  let  the  drama,  ’tis  the 
Sire’s  command. 

Begin  forthwith  its  course  ! ye  walls  expand  ! 
Naught  hinders ; magic  yields  what  we  re- 
quire. 

The  curtains  vanish,  as  uproll’d  by  fire; 

The  wall  splits  open,  backward  it  doth  wend  ; 
An  ample  theatre  appears  to  rise ; 

mystic  lustre  gleams  before  our  eyes ; 

And  I to  the  proscenium  ascend. 

Mephis.  ( Emerging  from  the  prompter' s 

box.)  I hope  for  general  favor  in  your 
eyes. 

The  Devil’s  rhetoric  in  prompting  lies! 

( To  the  Astrologer.  J 

The  time  dost  know,  in  which  the  stars  pro- 
ceed. 

And,  like  a master,  wilt  my  whispering  read. 
Astrologer.  Through  magic  power,  ap- 
pears before  our  gaze. 

Massive  enough,  a fane  of  ancient  days; 


Like  Atlas,  who  of  old  the  heavens  upbare. 
Columns,  in  goodly  rows,  are  standing  there; 
They  for  their  burden  may  suffice,  when  twain 
A mighty  edifice  might  well  sustain. 

Architect.  That  the  antique — I cannot 
think  it  right ; 

It  as  unwieldy  we  should  designate; 

'I'he  rude  is  noble  styled,  the  clumsy  great ! 
Slim  shafts  I love,  aspiring,  infinite; 

The  pointed  zenith  lifts  the  soul  on  high; 

Such  building  us  doth  mostly  edify. 

Astrologer.  Receive  with  reverence  star- 
granted  hours ! 

By  magic  word  enthrall’d  be  reason’s  powers; 
Here,  on  the  other  hand,  let  phantasy. 

Noble  and  daring,  roam  more  wildly  free ! 
What  boldly  you  desir’d,  he  with  your  eyes 
perceiv’d ! 

Impossible,  and  hence,  by  faith  to  be  believ’d. 
[Faust  7-ises  at  the  other  side  of  the  prosce- 
nium. 

Astrologer.  In  priestly  vesture,  crown’d, 
a wondrous  man. 

Who  now  achieves,  what  trustful  he  began  ; 

A tripod  with  him  from  the  gulf  ascends ; 
With  the  surrounding  air  the  incense  blends; 
He  arms  himself,  the  lofty  work  to  bless: 
Henceforth  we  naught  can  augur  but  success. 
Faust.  In  your  name.  Mothers,  ye  who 
on  your  throne 

Dwell  in  the  Infinite,  for  aye  alone. 

Yet  .sociably!  Around  your  heads  are  rife 
Life’s  pidlures,  restless,  yet  devoid  of  life; 
What  was,  there  raoveth,  bright  with  lustrous 
sheen ; 

For  deathless  will  abide  what  once  hath  been. 
This  ye  dispense,  beings  of  matchless  might. 
To  day’s  pavilion,  to  the  vault  of  night: 

Life  in  its  gentle  course  doth  some  arrest ; 

Of  others  the  bold  magian  goes  in  quest: 

In  rich  jirofusion,  fearless,  he  displays 
I’he  marvels  upon  which  each  longs  to  gaze. 
Astrologer.  Scarcely  the  glowing  key 
the  censer  nears. 

When  o’er  the  scene  a misty  shroud  appears; 
It  creepeth  in,  cloudlike  it  onward  glides. 
Expands,  upcurls,  contradls,  unites,  divides. 
Now  recognize  a sjiirit  masterpiece : 

The  clouds  make  music ; wonders  never  cease  ; 
The  airy  tones,  one  knows  not  how,  float  by : 
Where’er  they  move,  there  all  is  melody; 

The  pillar’d  shaft,  the  very  triglyph  rings; 
Yea,  I believe  that  the  whole  temple  sings! 
The  mist  subsides;  steps  forth,  in  measur’d 
time. 

From  the  light  veil,  a youth  in  beauty’s  prime. 

107 


Silent  mine  office  here;  his  name  I need  not  [ 
show ; 

Who  doth  the  gentle  Paris  fail  to  know  ! 

First  Lady.  O ! In  his  youthful  strength 
what  lustrous  grace ! 

Second  Lady.  Fresh  as  a peach,  and  full 
of  sap  his  face ! 

'I’hird  Lady.  The  finely  chisell’d,  sweetly 
swelling  lip ! 

Fourth  Lady.  At  such  a beaker  fain  wert 
thou  to  sip? 

Fifth  L.ady.  Though  handsome,  quite  un- 
polish’d is  his  mien. 

Sixth  Lady.  A little  more  refin’d  he  might 
have  been. 

Knight.  The  shepherd  youth,  methinks, 
in  him  I trace ; 

Naught  of  the  prince  or  of  the  courtier’s  grace  ! 

Another  Knight.  Flalf  naked,  fair  the 
stripling  seems  to  be  ; 

But  clad  in  armor  him  we  first  must  see ! 

Lady.  Gently  he  seats  himself,  with  easy 
grace. 

Knight.  For  you  his  lap  were  pleasant 
resting-place? 

Another.  Lightly  his  arm  he  bendeth 
o’er  his  head. 

Chamberlain.  That  is  not  here  allow’d. 
’Tis  under-bred  ! 

Lady.  You  gentlemen  are  always  hard  to 
please. 

Chamberlain.  Before  the  Emperor  to  loll 
at  ease ! 

Lady.  He  onlyadls!  He  thinks  himself 
alone. 

Chamberlain.  The  drama  should  be 
courtly  near  the  throne. 

Lady.  Gently  hath  sleep  o’ercome  the 
gracious  youth. 

Chamberlain.  He  snoreth  now;  ’tis  na- 
ture, perfedt  truth. 

Young  Lady.  (Enraptured.)  What  fra- 
grance with  the  incense  sweetly  blends, 

That  to  my  inmost  heart  refreshment  sends? 

Older  I>ady.  A breath  the  soul  pervades 
with  gracious  power ! 

From  him  it  comes. 

Oldest  Lady.  Of  growth  it  is  the  flower; 

It  like  ambrosia  from  the  youth  distils, 

.\nd  the  whole  atmosphere  around  him  fills. 

[Helena  steps  forivard. 

Mephis.  Such  then  she  was!  She  will  not 
break  my  rest  ! 

Fair,  doubtless;  but  she  is  not  to  my  taste. 

Astrologer.  P'or  me  remains  no  further 
duty  now. 


As  man  of  honor,  this  I must  allow. 

The  lair  one  comes;  and  had  I tongues  of 
fire — 

Beauty  of  old  did  many  a song  inspire — 

Who  sees  her  is  enraptur’d;  all  too  bless’d 
Was  he  indeed  by  whom  she  was  possess’d. 

Faust.  Have  1 still  eyes?  Is  beauty’s 
very  spring. 

Full  gushing,  to  mine  inmost  sense  reveal’d? 
Most  blessed  gain  doth  my  dread  journey  bring. 
How  blank  to  me  the  world,  its  depths  un- 
seal’d ! 

What  is  it  since  my  priesthood’s  solemn  hour! 
Enduring,  firmly-bas’d,  a precious  dower! 
Vanish  from  me  of  life  the  breathing  power. 

If,  e’en  in  thought,  I e’er  from  thee  decline  ! — 
The  gracious  form  that  raptur’d  once  my  sight. 
That  in  the  magic  mirror  wak’d  delight. 

Was  a foam-image  to  such  charms  as  thine ! — 
’Tis  thou,  to  whom  as  tribute  now  I bring 
My  passion’s  depth,  of  every  power  the  spring. 
Love,  adoration,  madness,  heart  and  soul! 

Mephis.  (From  the  prompter's  box.) 
Colledf  yourself,  and  fall  not  from  your  role ! 

Elderly  Lady.  Tall  and  well-shap’d! 
Only  too  small  the  head. 

Younger  Lady.  Her  foot!  ’Tis  clumsy 
if  the  truth  were  said. 

Diplomatist.  Princesses  of  this  kind  I’ve 
seen ; and  she 

From  head  to  foot  seems  beautiful  to  me. 

Courtier.  Softly  she  nears  the  sleeper, 
artful,  shy. 

Lady.  How  hateful  near  that  form  of 
purity ! 

Poet.  He  is  illumin’d  by  her  beauty’s 
sheen. 

Lady.  Endymion  ! Luna  i — ’Tis  the  pic- 
tur’d scene ! 

Poet.  Quite  right ! The  goddess  down- 
ward seems  to  sink ; 

O’er  him  she  bends,  his  balmy  breath  to 
drink ; 

A kiss  ! — The  measure’s  full  ! — O envied 
youth  ! 

Duenna.  Before  the  crowd — too  bold  that 
is,  in  sooth  ! 

Faust.  A fearful  favor  to  the  boy  ! — 

Mephis.  Be  still ! 

And  let  the  phantom  do  whate’er  it  will. 

Courtier.  She  steals  away,  light-footed  ; — • 
he  awakes. 

Lady.  A backward  glance,  just  as  I thought, 
she  takes  ! 

Courtier.  Fie  starts!  ’Tis  marvellous! 
he’s  all  amaze. 


io8 


FAUST.  SECOND  PART. 


PARIS  AND  HELEN. 


■ •s 


i 


I 


j.. 


I- 


■v^ 


ti 


■ r'^‘ 
VI..  . 


-V 


Lady.  To  her  no  marvel  is  what  meets  her 
gaze. 

Courtier.  To  him  with  coy  reserve  she 
turneth  now. 

Lady.  She  takes  him  into  tutelage,  it 
seems  ; 

All  men  in  such  a case  are  fools,  I trow ; 

Himself  to  be  the  first,  he  fondly  dreams  ! 

Knight.  Let  me  admire ! Majestically 
fair — 

Lady.  The  courtezan  ! ’Tis  vulgar,  I de- 
clare ! 

Page.  Now  in  his  place  to  be,  full  fain  I 
were  ! 

Courtier.  Who  in  such  net  would  not  be 
gladly  caught  ? 

Lady.  From  hand  to  hand  the  jewel  hath 
been  pass’d  ; 

The  very  gilding  is  worn  off  at  last. 

Another.  From  her  tenth  year  she  hath 
been  good  for  naught. 

Knight.  Each  takes  the  best  that  Fate  to 
him  hath  sent : 

With  this  fair  ruin  I were  well  content. 

Learned  Man.  Her  I behold,  yet  to  con- 
fess am  free. 

Doubts  may  arise,  if  she  the  right  one  be. 

What’s  present  doth  into  extremes  betray; 

Cling  closely  to  the  letter,  that’s  my  way  ; 

1 to  what’s  written  turn,  and  there  I read  ; 

How  she  all  Troya’s  graybeards  charm’d  in- 
deed. 

How  perfedlly  this  tallies  here,  I see — 

1 am  not  young,  and  yet  she  pleases  me. 

■VsTROLOGER.  A boy  no  more  ! A man, 
heroic,  brave. 

He  claspeth  her,  who  scarce  herself  can  save; 


With  stalwart  arm  aloft  he  raises  her. 

Thinks  he  to  bear  her  off? 

Faust.  Rash  fool  ! Beware  ! 

Thou  darest  ! Hearest  not ! Forbear  I say  ! 

Mephis.  Why  thou  thyself  dost  make  the 
phantom-play  ! 

Astrologer.  Only  one  word  ! From  what 
did  her  befall, 

“The  rape  of  Helena,”  the  piece  I call. 

Faust.  The  rape  ! Count  I for  nothing 
here  ? This  key. 

Do  I not  hold  it  still  within  my  hand? 

Through  dreary  wastes,  through  waves,  it 
guided  me. 

Through  solitudes,  here  to  this  solid  land  ; 

Here  is  firm  footing,  here  the  adlual,  where 

Spirit  with  spirits  to  contend  may  dare, 

And  for  itself  a vast,  twin-realm  prepare. 

Far  as  she  was,  how  can  she  be  more  near? 

Sav’d,  she  is  doubly  mine!  Fll  dare  it! 
Hear, 

Ye  Mothers,  Mothers,  hear,  and  grant  my 
quest ! 

Who  once  hath  known,  without  her  cannot 
rest ! 

Astrologer.  What  dost  thou?  Faustus  ! 
Faustus  ! — Her  with  might. 

He  seizes;  fades  the  phantom  from  the  sight; 

Towards  the  youth  he  turneth  now  the  key. 

He  touches  him  ! — Presto  ! alas  ! Woe’s  me  ! 

\_Explosiou,  Faust  lies  upon  the  ground. 

[ The  phantoms  vanish  in  the  air. 

Mephis.  ( Taking  Faust  upon  his  shoul- 
ders.) You  have  it  now  ! With  fools  one’s 
self  to  burden. 

May  to  the  devil  prove  a sorry  guerdon. 

( Darkness.  Tumult. ) 


109 


ACT  II. 


High-vaulted,  Narrow  Gothic  Chamrer. 
(Formerly  Faust’s,  unaltered.) 

Mephis.  (Stepping  from  behind  a curtain. 
While  he  raises  it  ami  looks  hack,  Faust  is 
seen,  stretched  upon  an  old-fashioned  bed.) 
Lie  there,  ill-starr’d  one  ! In  love’s  chain, 
Full  hard  to  loose,  he  captive  lies! 

Not  soon  his  senses  will  regain 
Whom  Helena  doth  paralyze. 

(Looking  round. 

Above,  around,  on  every  side 
I gaze,  uninjur’d  all  remains: 

Dimmer,  methinks,  appear  the  color’d  panes, 
The  spiders’  webs  are  multiplied. 


Yellow  the  paper,  and  the  ink  is  dry ; 

Yet  in  its  place  each  thing  I find ; 

And  here  the  very  pen  doth  lie. 

Wherewith  himself  Faust  to  the  Devil  sign’d, 
Yea,  quite  dried  up,  and  deeper  in  the  bore, 
'Fhe  drop  of  blood,  I lur’d  from  him  of  yore — 
O’erjoy’d  to  own  such  specimen  unique 
Were  he  who  objedls  rare  is  fain  to  seek; — 
Here  on  its  hook  hangs  still  the  old  fur  cloak, 
Me  it  remindeth  of  that  merry  joke. 

When  to  the  boy  1 precepts  gave,  for  truth. 
Whereon,  perchance,  he’s  feeding  now,  as 
youth. 

The  wish  comes  over  me,  with  thee  allied. 
Envelop’d  in  thy  worn  and  rugged  folds. 


I lO 


Once  more  to  swell  with  the  professor’s  pride ! 
How  quite  infallible  himself  he  holds; 

This  feeling  to  obtain  your  savans  know  ; 

The  devil  parted  with  it  long  ago. 

IHe  shakes  the  fur  cloak  which  he  has  taken 
down;  crickets,  moths  and  chafers  fly  out. 
Chorus  of  Insects.  VVe  welcome  thy  com- 
ing, 

Our  patron  of  yore  ! 

We’re  dancing  and  humming, 

And  know  thee  once  more. 

Us  singly,  in  silence. 

Hast  planted,  and  lo  ! 

By  thousands,  O Father, 

We  dance  to  and  fro. 

The  rogue  hides  discreetly 
The  bosom  within  ; 

We  looseskins  fly  rather 
Forth  from  the  fur  skin. 

Mephis.  O’erjoy’d  I am  my  progeny  to 
know  ! 

We’re  sure  to  reap  in  time,  if  we  but  sow. 

I shake  the  old  fur-mantle  as  before. 

And  here  and  there  outflutters  one  or  more. 
Above,  around,  hasten,  beloved  elves. 

In  hundred  thousand  nooks  to  hide  yourselves  ! 
’Mid  boxes  there  of  bygone  time, 

Here  in  these  age-embrowned  scrolls. 

In  broken  potsherds,  foul  with  grime. 

In  yonder  skulls’  now  eyeless  holes  ! 

Amid  such  rotten,  mouldering  life. 

Must  foolish  whims  for  aye  be  rife. 

\Slips  into  the  fur-mantle. 
Come  shroud  my  shoulders  as  of  yore  ! 

To-day  I’m  principal  once  more; 

But  useless  ’tis,  to  bear  the  name  : 

Where  are  the  folk  to  recognize  my  claim? 
\^He  pulls  the  bell,  which  emits  a shrill  pene- 
trating sound,  at  which  the  halls  shake 
and  the  doors  spring  open. 

Famulus.  ( Tottering  up  the  long  dark  pas- 
sage.) What  a clamor!  What  a quak- 
ing I 

Stairs  are  rocking,  walls  are  shaking  : 
Through  the  windows’  quivering  sheen. 

Are  the  stormful  lightnings  seen  ; 

Springs  the  ceiling, — thence,  below. 

Lime  and  mortar  rattling  flow  ; 

And,  though  bolted  fast,  the  door 
Is  undone  by  magic  power  ! 

'I’here,  in  Faust’s  old  fleece  bedight. 

Stands  a giant, — dreadful  sight ! 

At  his  glance,  his  beck,  at  me  ! 

I could  sink  upon  my  knee. 

Shall  I fly,  or  shall  I stay? 

What  will  be  my  fate  to-day  1 


Mephis.  Come  hither,  friend  ! — Your  name 
is  Nicodemus? 

Famulus.  Most  honor’d  Sir,  sucli  is  my 
name. — Oremus  1 
Mephis.  That  we’ll  omit. 

Famulus.  O joy,  me  you  do  not  forget. 
Mephis.  I know  it  well : old,  and  a stu- 
dent yet ; 

My  mossy  friend,  even  a learned  man 
Still  studies  on,  because  naught  else  he  can  : 
Thus  a card-house  each  builds  of  medium 
height ; 

The  greatest  spirit  fails  to  build  it  quite. 

Your  master,  though,  that  title  well  may 
claim — 

The  noble  Dodlor  Wagner,  known  to  fame. 
First  in  the  learned  world!  ’Tis  he,  they  say, 
Who  holds  that  world  together ; every  day 
Of  wisdom  he  augments  the  store  ! 

Who  crave  omniscience,  evermore 
In  crowds  upon  his  teaching  wait ; 

He  from  the  rostrum  shines  alone  ; 

The  keys  doth  like  Saint  Peter  own. 

And  doth  of  Hell  and  Heaven  ope  the  gate  ; 
As  before  all  he  glows  and  sparkles. 

No  fame,  no  glory  but  grows  dim. 

Even  the  name  of  Faustus  darkles ! 

Inventor  there  is  none  like  him. 

Famulus.  Pardon,  most  honor’d  Sir,  ex- 
cuse me,  pray — 

If  I presume  your  utterance  to  gainsay — 

This  bears  not  on  the  question  any  way  ; 

A modest  mind  is  his  allotted  share. 

The  disappearance,  unexplain’d  as  yet. 

Of  the  great  man,  his  mind  doth  sorely  fret  ; 
Comfort  from  his  return  and  health  are  still 
his  prayer. 

The  chamber,  as  in  Do6lor  Faustus’  day. 
Maintains,  untouch’d,  its  former  state. 

And  for  its  ancient  lord  doth  wait. 

Venture  therein  I scarcely  may. 

What  now  the  asjiedl  of  the  stars? — 
Awe-struck  the  very  walls  appear  ; 

The  door-posts  quiver’d,  sprang  the  bars — 
Else  you  yourself  could  not  have  enter’d  here. 
Mephis.  Where  then  bestow’d  himself  hath 
he? 

Lead  me  to  him  ! bring  him  to  me ! 

Famulus.  Alas!  Too  stridl  his  prohibition. 
Scarce  dare  I,  without  his  permission. 

Months,  on  his  mighty  work  intent. 

Hath  he,  in  stridt  seclusion  spent. 

Most  dainty  ’mong  your  men  of  books. 

Like  charcoal-burner  now  he  looks. 

With  face  begrim’d  from  ear  to  nose  ; 

His  eyes  are  blear’d,  while  Are  he  blows  ; 


1 1 1 


Thus  for  the  crisis  still  he  longs ; 

Ills  music  is  the  clang  of  tongs. 

Mephis.  Admittance  unto  me  deny? 

I’o  hasten  his  success,  the  man  am  I. 

\^Exit  Famui.us.  Mephistophei.es  seats 
himself  ivith  a solemn  air. 

Scarce  have  I taken  my  ])ost,  when  lo  ! 

Stirs  from  behind  a guest,  whom  well  I know ; 
Of  the  most  recent  school,  this  time,  is  he. 
And  quite  unbounded  will  his  daring  be. 
Baccalaureus.  (Storming  along  the  pas- 
sage.) Open  find  1 door  and  gate  ! 

Hojje  at  last  springs  up  elate, 

'I'hat  the  living  shall  no  more 
Corpse-like  rot,  as  heretofore. 

And,  while  breathing  living  breath, 

W'aste  and  moulder  as  in  death. 

Here  partition,  screen,  and  wall 
Are  sinking,  bowing  to  their  fall. 

And,  unless  we  soon  retreat. 

Wreck  and  ruin  us  will  greet. 

Me,  though  bold,  nor  soon  afraid. 

To  advance  shall  none  persuade. 

W'hat  shall  I experience  next? 

Years  ago,  when  sore  perplex’d. 

Came  I not  a freshman  here. 

Full  of  anxious  doubt  and  fear. 

On  these  graybeards  then  relied, 

By  their  talk  was  edified? 

What  from  musty  tomes  they  drew. 

They  lied  to  me;  the  things  they  knew 
Believ’d  they  not ; with  falsehood  rife. 
Themselves  and  me  they  robb’d  of  life. 
How?— Yonder  in  the  murky  glare. 

There’s  one  still  sitting  in  the  chair — 

Drawing  near  I wonder  more — 

Just  as  him  I left  of  yore, 

'I'here  he  sits,  in  furry  gown, 

Wrapp’d  in  shaggy  fleece,  the  brown  ! 

'I’hen  he  clever  seem’d,  indeed. 

Him  as  yet  I could  not  read  ; 

Naught  will  it  avail  to-day  ; 

So  have  at  him,  straight-away  . 

If  Lethe’s  murky  flood  not  yet  hath  pass’d. 
Old  Sir,  through  your  bald  pate,  that  sideways 
bends. 

The  scholar  recognize,  who  hither  wends. 
Outgrown  your  academic  rods  at  last. 

The  same  I find  you,  as  of  yore  ; 

But  I am  now  the  same  no  more. 

Mephis.  Glad  am  I that  I’ve  rung  you  here. 
I priz’d  you  then  not  slightingly; 


In  grub  and  chrysalis  appear 
The  future  brilliant  butterfly. 

( A childish  pleasure  then  you  drew 
From  collar,  lace,  and  curls.- — queue 
You  iMobably  have  never  worn? — 

Now  to  a cro|)  I see  you  shorn. 

All  resolute  and  bold  your  air — 

But  from  the  absolute  forbear  ! 

Baccalaureus.  We’re  in  the  anciem 
place,  mine  ancient  Sir, 

But  think  upon  time’s  onward  flow, 

.'\nd  words  of  double-meaning  spare  ! 

Quite  otherwise  we  hearken  now. 

You  fool’d  the  simple,  honest  youth  ; 

It  cost  but  little  art  in  sooth. 

To  do  what  none  to-day  will  dare. 

Mephis.  If  to  the  young  the  naked  truth 
one  speaks. 

It  pleases  in  no  wise  the  yellow  beaks ; 

But  afterwards,  when  in  their  turn 

On  their  own  skin  the  painful  truth  they  learn, 

1 They  think,  forsooth,  from  their  own  head  it 
came ; 

“The  master  was  a fool,’’  they  straight  pro- 
claim. 

Baccalaureus.  A rogue  perchance  !• — For 
where’s  the  teacher  found 
Who  to  our  face,  direcft,  will  Truth  expound? 
Children  to  edify,  each  knows  the  way, 

'Fo  add  or  to  subtradl,  now  grave,  now  gay. 
Mephis.  For  learning  there’s  in  very  truth 
a time ; 

For  teaching,  I perceive,  you  now  are  prime. 
While  a few  suns  and  many  moons  have  wan’d, 
A rich  experience  you  have  doubtless  gain’d  ! 
Baccalaureus.  Experience ! Froth  and 
scum  alone. 

Not  with  the  mind  of  ecjnal  birth  ! 

Confess  ! what  men  have  always  known. 

As  knowledge  now  is  nothing  worth. 

Mephis.  (After  a pause.)  I long  have 
thought  myself  a fool  ; 

Now  shallow  to  myself  I seem,  and  dull. 
Baccalaureus.  That  pleases  me ! Like 
reason  that  doth  sound  ; 

The  first  old  man  of  sense  I yet  have  found  ! 
Mephis.^  I sought  for  hidden  treasures, 
genuine  gold — 

And  naught  but  hideous  ashes  forth  I bore  ! 

' Baccalaureus.  Confess  that  pate  of  yours, 
though  bare  and  old. 

Than  yonder  hollow  skull  is  worth  no  more  ! 
Mephis.  ( Good-naturedly.)  Thou  know’st 
not,  friend,  how  rude  is  thy  reph'. 
Baccalaureus.  In  German  to  be  courteous 
is  to  lie. 


I I 2 


^///  //r/ 


Mephis.  ( Still  moving  his  wheel-chair  ever 
nearer  to  the  proscenium,  to  the  pit.) 

Up  here  I am  bereft  of  light  and  air ; 

I perhaps  shall  find  a refuge  with  you  there? 

Baccalaureus.  When  at  their  worst,  that 
men  would  something  be, 

When  they  are  naught,  presumptuous  seems  to 
me. 

Man’s  life  is  in  the  blood,  and  where,  in  sooth. 

Pulses  the  blood  so  strongly  as  in  youth  ? 

That’s  living  blood,  which  with  fresh  vigor 
rife. 

The.  newer  life  createth  out  of  life. 

I’here  all  is  movement,  something  there  is 
done ; 

Falleth  the  weak,  the  able  presses  on  ! 

While  half  the  world  we  ’neath  our  sway  have 
brought. 

What  have  ye  done?  Slept,  nodded,  dream’d 
and  thought, 

Plan  after  jdan  rejedl’d  ; — nothing  won. 

Age  is,  in  sooth,  a fever  cold, 

With  frost  of  whims  and  peevish  need  : 

When  more  than  thirty  years  are  told. 

As  good  as  dead  one  is  indeed  : 

You  it  were  best,  methinks,  betimes  to  slay. 

Mephis.  The  devil  here  has  nothing  more 
to  say. 

Baccalaureus.  Save  through  my  will,  no 
devil  dares  to  be. 

Mephis.  (Aside.)  The  devil  now  pre- 
pares a fall  for  thee  ! 

Baccalaureus.  The  noblest  mission  this 
of  youth’s  estate. 

'rhe  world  was  not,  till  it  I did  create ; 

The  radiant  Sun  I led  from  out  the  sea; 

Her  changeful  course  the  Moon  began  with 
me ; 


The  Day  array’d  herself  my  steps  to  meet. 

The  Earth  grew  green,  and  blossom’d  me  to 
greet ; 

At  my  command,  upon  you  primal  Night, 

The  starry  hosts  unveil’d  their  glorious  light. 
Who,  beside  me,  the  galling  chains  unbound. 
Which  cramping  thought  had  cast  your  spirits 
round  ? 

But  I am  free,  as  speaks  my  spirit-voice. 

My  inward  light  I follow,  and  rejoice ; 

Swift  I advance,  enraptur’d,  void  of  fear. 
Brightness  before  me,  darkness  in  the  rear. 

\^Exit. 

Mephis.  Go,  in  thy  pride.  Original,  thy 
way  ! — 

True  insight  would,  in  truth,  thy  spirit  grieve! 
What  wise  or  stupid  thoughts  can  man  con- 
ceive. 

Unponder’d  in  the  ages  pass’d  away? — 

Yet  we  for  him  need  no  misgiving  have; 
Chang’d  will  he  be,  when  a few  years  are  past; 
Howe’er  absurdly  may  the  must  behave, 
Nathless  it  yields  a wine  at  last.- — 

( To  the  younger  part  of  the  audience,  who  do 
not  applaud. ) 

Though  to  my  words  you’re  somewhat  cold. 
Good  children,  me  you  don’t  offend; 

Refledl ! The  devil,  he  is  old  ; 

Grow  old  then,  him  to  comprehend  ! 


Laboratory. 

After  the  fashion  of  the  middle  ages  ; cum- 
brous, useless  apparatus,  for  fantastic  pur- 
poses. 

Wagner.  ( At  the  furnace.)  Soundeth  the 
bell,  the  fearful  clang 


Tlirills  through  these  sooty  walls;  no  more 
Upon  fulfilment  waits  the  pang 
Of  hope  or  fear; — suspense  is  o’er; 

The  darknesses  begin  to  clear, 

Within  the  inmost  phial  glows 
Radiance,  like  living  coal,  that  throws. 

As  from  a splendid  carbuncle,  its  rays; 
Athwart  the  gloom  its  lightning  plays, 

A pure  white  lustre  doth  appear ; 

O may  I never  lose  it  more  ! — 

My  God  ! what  rattles  at  the  door? 

Mephis.  (Entering.)  Welcome!  As 
friend  I enter  here. 

Wagner.  Hail  to  the  star  that  rules  the 
hour  1 \Softly. 

On  breath  and  utterance  let  a ban  be  laid  I 
Soon  will  be  consummate  a work  of  power. 
Mephis.  ( In  a whisper.)  What  is  it,  then? 
Wagner.  A man  is  being  made. 

Mephis.  A man  ? and  pray  what  loving  pair 
Have  in  your  smoke-hole  their  abode  ? 

Wagner.  Nay  I Heaven  forbid  I As  non- 
sense we  declare 
The  ancient  procreative  mode  ; 

The  tender  point,  life’s  spring,  the  gentle 
strength 

That  took  and  gave,  that  from  within  hath 
press’d. 

And  seiz’d,  intent  itself  to  manifest 

The  nearest  first,  the  more  remote  at  length, — 

'I'his  from  its  dignity  is  now  dethron’d  ! 

The  brute  indeed  may  take  delight  therein. 
But  man,  by  whom  such  mighty  gifts  are 
own’d. 

Must  have  a purer,  higher  origin. 

\^He  turns  to  the  furnace. 
It  flashes,  see  1 — Now  may  we  trustful  hold. 
That  if,  of  substances  a hundred-fold. 
Through  mixture, — for  on  mixture  it  de- 
pends— 

The  human  substance  duly  we  compose. 

And  then  in  a retort  enclose. 

And  cohobate  ; in  still  repose 
The  work  is  perfedl’d,  our  labor  ends. 

(Again  turning  to  the  furnace. 
It  forms!  More  clear  the  substance  shows  ! 
Stronger,  more  strong,  convidlion  grows  ! 
What  Nature’s  mystery  we  once  did  style. 
That  now  to  test,  our  reason  tries. 

And  what  she  organiz’d  erewhile. 

We  now  are  fain  to  crystallize. 

Mephis.  Who  lives,  doth  much  experience 
glean ; _ _ 

By  naught  in  this  world  will  he  be  surpris’d ; 
Already  in  my  travel-years  I’ve  seen. 

Full  many  a race  of  mortals  crystallized. 


Wagner.  ( Still  gazing  intently  on  the  phial.) 
It  mounts,  it  glows,  and  doth  together  run. 
One  moment,  and  the  work  is  done  ! 

As  mad,  a grand  design  at  first  is  view’d ; 

But  we  henceforth  may  laugh  at  fate. 

And  so  a brain,  with  thinking-power  imbu’d. 
Henceforth  your  living  thinker  will  create. 

(Surveying  the  phial  with  rapture. 
The  glass  resounds,  with  gracious  power  pos- 
sess’d ; 

It  dims,  grows  clear ; living  it  needs  must  be  ! 
And  now  in  form  of  beauty  dress’d, 

A dainty  mannikin  I see. 

What  more  can  we  desire,  what  more  man- 
kind ? 

Unveil’d  is  now  what  hidden  was  of  late; 
Give  ear  unto  this  sound,  and  you  will  find, 

A voice  it  will  become,  articulate. 

Homunculus.  (In  the  phial,  to  Wagner.) 
Now,  Fatherkin,  how  goes  it  ? ’Twas  no  jest ! 
Come  let  me  to  thy  heart  be  fondly  press’d — 
Lest  the  glass  break,  less  tight  be  thine  em- 
brace ! 

This  is  the  property  of  things : the  All 
Scarcely  suffices  for  the  natural ; 

The  artificial  needs  a bounded  space. 

(To  Mephtstopheles.) 

But  thou.  Sir  Cousin,  Rogue,  art  thou  too 
here  ? 

At  the  right  moment ! Thee  I thank.  ’Tis  clear 
To  us  a happy  fortune  leadeth  thee ; 

While  I exist,  still  must  I adlive  be. 

And  to  the  work  forthwith  myself  would  gird ; 
Thou’rt  skill’d  the  way  to  shorten. 

Wagner.  Just  one  word  ! 

I oft  have  been  asham’d  that  knowledge  fail’d. 
When  old  and  young  with  problems  me  as- 
sail’d. 

For  instance : no  one  yet  could  comprehend. 
How  soul  and  body  so  completely  blend. 
Together  hold,  as  ne’er  to  part,  while  they 
Torment  each  other  through  the  livelong  day. 
So  then — 

Mephis.  Forbear  ! The  problem  solve  for 
me. 

Why  man  and  wife  so  wretchedly  agree  ? 

Upon  this  point,  my  friend,  thou’ It  ne’er  be 
clear ; 

The  mannikin  wants  work,  he’ll  find  it  here. 
Homunculus.  What’s  to  be  done? 
Mephis.  ( Pointing  to  a side  door.) 

Yonder  thy  gifts  display  ! 

Wagner.  ( Still  gazing  into  the  phial.) 

A very  lovely  boy,  I needs  must  say ! 

(The  side  door  opens ; Faust  is  seen  stretched 
upon  a couch. 


Homunculus.  (Amazed.)  Monientus ! 

[ The  phial  slips  from  Wagner’s  hands,  hovers 
over  Faust,  and  sheds  a light  upon  him. 

Girt  with  beauty  ! — Water  clear 
In  the  thick  grove  ; fair  women,  who  undress; 
Most  lovely  creatures ! — grows  their  loveli- 
ness : 

But  o’er  the  rest  one  shines  without  a peer. 

As  if  from  heroes,  nay  from  gods  she  came ; 
In  the  transparent  sheen  her  foot  she  laves ; 
The  tender  life-fire  of  her  noble  frame 
She  cools  in  yielding  crystal  of  the  waves. — 
Of  swiftly  moving  wings  what  sudden  noise? 
What  plash,  what  plunge  the  liquid  glass  de- 
stroys ? 

The  maidens  fly,  alarmed  ; alone,  the  queen, 
With  calm  composure  gazes  on  the  scene  : 
With  womanly  and  proud  delight,  she  sees 
The  prince  of  swans  press  fondly  to  her  knees, 


Persistent,  tame;  familiar  now  he  grows. — 
But  suddenly  upfioats  a misty  shroud. 

And  with  thick-woven  veil  doth  overcloud 
The  loveliest  of  all  lovely  shows. 

Mephis.  Why  thou  in  sooth  canst  every- 
thing relate  ! 

Small  as  thou  art,  as  phantast  thou  art  great. 

I can  see  nothing — 

Homunculus.  I believe  it.  Thou, 

Bred  in  the  north,  in  the  dark  ages,  how. 

In  whirl  of  priesthood  and  knight-errantry. 
Have  for  such  sights,  thy  vision  free  ! 

In  darkness  only  thou’rt  at  home. 

\Looking  round. 

Ye  brown,  repulsive  blocks  of  stone. 
Arch-pointed,  low,  with  mould  o’ergrown ! 
Should  he  awake,  new  care  were  bred. 

He  on  the  spot  would  straight  be  dead. 
Wood-fountains,  swans,  fair  nymphs  undress’d. 


”5 


Such  was  his  dream,  presageful,  rare; 

In  place  like  this  how  could  he  rest, 

Wliich  I,  of  easy  mood,  scarce  bear  ! 

Away  with  him  ! 

Mei’HIS.  I like  your  plan,  proceed  ! 

Homunculus.  Command  the  warrior  to  the 
fight. 

The  maiden  to  the  dancers  lead  ! 

They’re  satisfied,  and  all  is  right. 

E’en  now  a thought  occurs,  most  bright; 

’Tis  classical  Waljmrgis-night — 

Most  fortunate  ! It  suits  his  bent. 

So  bring  him  straightway  to  his  element ! 
Mephis.  Of  such  I ne’er  have  heard,  I 
frankly  own. 

Homunculus.  Upon  your  ear  indeed  how 
should  it  fall  ? 

Only  romantic  ghosts  to  you  are  known  ; 

Your  genuine  ghost  is  also  classical. 

Mephis.  But  whitherward  to  travel  are  we 
fain  ? 

Your  antique  colleagues  are  against  my  grain. 
Homunculus.  North-westward,  Satan,  lies 
thy  pleasure-ground  ; 

But,  this  time,  we  to  the  south-east  are  bound. — 
,\n  ample  vale  Peneios  floweth  through, 

’Mid  bush  and  tree  its  curving  shores  it 
laves ; 

The  plain  extendeth  to  the  mountain  caves, 
Above  it  lies  Pharsalus,  old  and  new. 

Mephis.  Alas ! Forbear ! Forever  be 
eschew’d 

I'hose  wars  of  tyranny  and  servitude  ! 

I’m  bored  with  them  : for  they,  as  soon  as 
done. 

Straight  recommence ; and  no  one  calls  to 
mind 

That  he  in  sooth  is  only  play’d  upon 
By  Asmodeus,  who  still  lurks  behind. 

They  battle,  so  ’tis  said,  for  freedom’s  rights — 
More  clearly  seen,  ’tis  slave  ’gainst  slave  who 
fights. 

Homunculus.  Leave  we  to  men  their  na- 
ture, quarrel-prone  ! 

Each  must  defend  himself,  as  best  he  can. 
From  boyhood  up;  so  he  becomes  a man. 
d'he  question  here  is,  how  to  cure  this  one? 

\_Pointing  to  Faust. 


Hast  thou  a means,  here  let  it  tested  be ; 

Canst  thou  do  naught,  then  leave  the  task  to 
me. 

Mephis.  Full  many  a Brocken-piece  I 
might  essay. 

But  bolts  of  heathendom  foreclose  the  way. 
The  Grecian  folk  were  ne’er  worth  much,  ’tis 
true. 

Yet  with  the  senses’  play  they  dazzle  you ; 

To  cheerful  sins  the  human  heart  they  lure. 
While  ours  are  reckon’d  gloomy  and  obscure. 
And  now  what  next  ? 

Homunculus.  Of  old  thou  wert  not  shy  ; 
And  if  I name  Thessalian  witches, — why, 

I something  shall  have  said,^ — of  that  I’m  sure. 
Mephis.  (Lustfully.)  Thessalian  witches — 
well  ! the  people  they 
Concerning  whom  I often  have  inquir’d. 

Night  after  night,  indeed,  with  them  to  stay. 
That  were  an  ordeal  not  to  be  desir’d ; 

But  for  a trial  trip — 

Homunculus.  The  mantle  there 
Reach  hither,  wrap  it  round  the  knight ! 

As  heretofore,  the  rag  will  bear 
Both  him  and  thee;  the  way  I’ll  light. 
Wagner.  (Alarmed.)  And  I? 
Homunculus.  At  home  thou  wilt  remain  : 
Thee  most  important  work  doth  there  detain  ; 
The  ancient  scrolls  unfolding,  cull 
Life’s  elements,  as  taught  by  rule  ; 

And  each  with  other  then  combine  with  care ; 
Upon  the  What,  more  on  the  How,  refledl  ! 
Meanwhile  as  through  a piece  of  world  I fare, 
I may  the  dot  upon  the  “I”  detedl. 

Then  will  the  mighty  aim  accomplish’d  be; 
Such  high  reward  deserves  such  striving  ; — 
wealth. 

Honor  and  glory,  lengthen’d  life,  sound  health. 
Knowledge  withal  and  virtue — possibly. 
Farewell  1 

Wagner.  Farewell ! That  grieves  my 
heart  full  sore  ! 

I fear  indeed  I ne’er  shall  see  thee  more. 

Mephis.  Now  to  Peneios  forth  we  wend  ! 
We  must  not  slight  our  cousin’s  aid. 

( To  the  spedlators. ) 

At  last,  in  sooth,  we  all  depend 
On  creatures,  we  ourselves  have  made. 


CLASSICAL  WALPURGIS- 
NIGHT. 

Pharsalian  Fields. 

Darkness. 

Erichtho.*  To  this  night’s  ghastly  fete, 
as  oftentimes  before, 

I hither  come,  Erichtho,  I,  the  gloomy  one ; 

Not  so  atrocious,  as  the  sorry  poet-throng 

Me  in  excess  have  slander’d.  . . They  no 
measure  know 

In  censure  and  applause.  . . O’erwhiten’d 
seems  to  me. 

With  waves  of  dusky  tents,  the  valley,  far  and 
wide. 

Night-phantom  of  that  dire  and  most  appall- 
ing night. 

How  often  ’tis  repeated!  Will  for  evermore 

Repeat  itself  for  aye.  . . empire  none  gladly 
yields 

To  others ; none  to  him,  by  force  who 
master’d  it 

And  forceful  reigns.  For  each,  his  inmost 
self  to  rule 

How  impotent  soe’er,  ruleth  right  joyously 

His  neighbor’s  will,  as  prompts  his  own  im- 
perious mind.  . . . 

Nathless  a great  example  here  was  battled 
through ; 

Here  force  ’gainst  force  more  potent  takes  its 
stand, 

Freedom’s  fair  chaplet  breaks,  with  thousand 
blossoms  rife. 


* A Thessalian  witcli  consulted  by  Poinpey. 


The  stubborn  laurel  bends  around  the  vidtor’s 
brow. 

Of  greatness’  budding-day  here  Pompey 
dream’d  ; and  there. 

Watching  the  wavering  balance,  Caesar  wake- 
ful lay  I 

Strength  they  shall  measure.  Knows  the 
world  who  here  prevail’d. 

Brightly  the  watch-fires  burn,  diffusing  ruddy 
flames ; 

Reflex  of  blood,  once  spill’d,  does  from  the  soil 
exhale. 

And  by  the  night’s  most  rare  and  wondrous 
splendor  lur’d. 

Hither  the  legions  throng  of  Hellas’  mythic 
lore. 

Round  every  fire  dim  shapes,  phantoms  of 
ancient  days. 

Flit  wavering  to  and  fro,  or  there  recline  at 
ease.  . . 

The  moon,  not  fully  orb’d,  of  clearest  light 
serene. 

Uprising,  lustre  mild  diffuses  all  around. 

Vanish  the  spedlral  tents,  the  fires  are  burning 
blue. 

But  lo  ! above  my  head,  what  sudden  meteor 
sails  ! 

It  shines,  and  doth  illume  a ball  corporeal. 

I snuff  the  scent  of  life.  Me  it  beseemeth  not 

The  living  to  approach,  to  whom  I noxious 
am ; 

That  brings  me  ill-repute,  and  nothing  profits 
me. 

Already  it  sinks  down.  With  caution  I retire. 

[ Withdraws. 

117 


The  Aerial  Travellers  above. 

Homunculus.  O’er  the  horror  weird  and 
blazing, 

Wing  once  more  your  circling  flight ; 
Down  on  vale  and  hollow  gazing, 

All  phantasmal  is  the  sight. 

Mephis.  Hideous  ghosts,  as  through  the 
casement 

Old,  ’mid  northern  waste  and  gloom, 

I behold, — without  amazement, — 

Here  as  there  I am  at  home  ! 
Homunculus.  Swiftly,  there,  before  us 
striding, 

Mark  yon  tall,  retreating  shade  ! 

Mephis.  Seeing  us  through  ether  gliding. 
Troubled  seems  she,  and  afraid. 
Homunculus.  Let  her  stride ! Set  down 
thy  burden, — 

Him,  thy  Knight ; — the  while  I speak, 
Life  to  him  returns,  the  guerdon. 

He  in  fable-land  doth  seek. 

Faust.  (Touching  the  ground.)  Where  is 
she  ? 

Homunculus.  That  I cannot  say. 

But  here  perchance  inquire  for  her  you  may. 
Till  breaks  the  dawn,  with  speed,  do  thou. 
From  fire  to  fire,  still  seeking,  wend ; 

He  nothing  more  need  fear,  I trow. 

Who,  to  the  Mothers,  ventur’d  to  descend. 

Mephis.  My  part  to  play,  I also  claim  ; 
And  for  our  weal  naught  better  know. 

Than  that,  forthwith,  from  flame  to  flame. 
Seeking  his  own  adventures  each  should  go. 
Then  us  once  more  to  re-unite. 

Show,  little  friend,  thy  sounding  light ! 

Homunculus.  Thus  shall  it  sound,  thus 
glitter  too  ! 

[ The  glass  rings,  and  emits  a powerful  light. 
And  now  away  to  marvels  new  ! 

Faust.  (Alone.)  Where  is  she? — Now  no 
further  question  make  ! . . . 

If  this  were  not  the  sod,  her  form  that  bare. 
This  not  the  wave  that  brake  to  welcome  her. 
Yet  ’tis  the  air,  that  once  her  language  spake  ! 
Here  ! through  a wonder,  here  on  Grecian 
land  ! 

I felt  at  once  the  soil  whereon  I stand  : 

As  me,  the  sleeper,  a new  spirit  fired. 

An  Antaeus  in  heart,  I rise  inspir’d. 

Assembled  here  objedfs  most  strange  I find. 
Searching,  through  this  flame-labyrinth  I’ll 
wind.  (He  retires. 

Mephis.  (Trying  around.)  As  I these 

little  fires  still  wander  through, 

I find  myself  a stranger  everywhere  3 


Quite  naked  most,  some  shirted  here  and 
there ; 

The  Sphinxes  shameless,  and  the  Griffins  too. 
And  winged  things,  with  tresses,  hurrying 
past. 

Before,  behind,  within  mine  eye  are  glass’d  . . . 
At  heart  indecent  are  we,  truth  to  speak. 

Yet  all  too  life-like  find  I the  Antique  ; 

It  by  the  modern  mind  must  be  controll’d. 
And  overgloss’d,  in  fashions  manifold.  . . . 

A crew  repulsive  ! Yet,  a stranger  guest. 

In  courteous  phrase  be  my  salute  express’d.  . . . 
All  hail ! ye  beauteous  ladies,  graybeards 
wise  ! 

Griffin.  (Snarling.)  Not  Graybeards — 
Griffins  ! It  the  temper  tries 
To  hear  one’s  self  styled  gray.  In  every  word 
Some  echo  of  its  origin  is  heard  : 

Grim,  grievous,  grizzl’d,  grimy,  graveyards, 

gray, 

In  etymology  accord,  and  they 
Still  put  us  out  of  tune. 

Mephis.  Yet  all  the  same. 

The  “Gri”  contents  you  in  your  honor’d 
name. 

Griffin.  (As  above.)  Of  course  ! For  the 
alliance  prov’d  may  be. 

Oft  blam’d  indeed,  but  prais’d  more  frequently. 
Let  each  one  gripe  at  beauty,  empire,  gold. 
Fortune  still  aids  the  Griper  if  he’s  bold. 
Ants.  ( Of  the  colossal  kind.)  Of  gold  ye 
speak.  Thereof  we  much  had  stor’d. 
And  pil’d  in  rocks  and  caves  our  secret  hoard; 
The  Arimaspians  found  it,  bore  it  off — 

So  far  away  that  now  at  us  they  scoff. 

Griffin.  We’ll  bring  them  straightway  to 
confession. 

Arimaspian.  Not  on  this  night  of  jubilee  ! 
Ere  morning,  all  will  squander’d  be ; 

For  this  time  we  retain  possession. 

Mephis.  ( Who  has  seated  himself  between 
the  Sphinxes.)  How  soon,  well-pleas’ d,  I 
grow  familiar  here ! 

I understand  them,  man  by  man. 

Sphinx.  Our  spirit-tones  into  your  ear 
We  breathe,  embody  them  you  can. 

Until  we  know  thee  better,  tell  thy  name. 
Mephis.  Full  many  a title  I ’mong  men 
may  claim. 

Are  Britons  here  ? They  travel  far  to  trace 
Renowned  battlefields,  and  waterfalls. 

Old  musty  classic  sites,  and  ruin’d  walls. 

A worthy  goal  for  them  this  very  place ; 

Of  me  their  ancient  plays  would  testify; 

I there  was  seen  as  Old  Iniquity. 

Sphinx.  How  came  they  upon  that  ? 


118 


Mephis.  I know  not. 

Sphinx.  That  may  be. 

To  read  the  starry  volume  hast  thou  power  ? 
What  sayest  to  the  aspedl  of  the  hour  ? 

Mephis.  (Looking up.)  Star  shooteth  after 
star,  bright  the  shorn  moon  doth  shine, 
And  I’m  content  this  cozy  place  within  ; 

I warm  myself  against  thy  lion’s  skin. 

Aloft  to  climb  were  hurtful,  I opine. 

Propose  some  riddles,  some  charades ! — Begin  ! 

Sphinx.  Thyself  declare,  a riddle  that  in- 
deed. 

Only  essay  thine  inmost  self  to  read  : 

“ Needful  to  pious,  as  to  bad  men  found  ; 
Armor  to  those,  ascetic  fence  to  test. 

Comrade  to  these,  in  every  desperate  quest. 
And  both  alike  to  Zeus,  a merry  jest.” 

First  Griffin.  (Snarling.)  I like  him 
not ! 

Second  Griffin.  (Snarli?ig  more  loudly.) 
What  wants  he  here? 

Both.  The  brute  belongs  not  to  this  sphere  ! 

Mephis.  (Brutally.)  Thou  thinkest, 
maybe,  that  the  stranger’s  nail. 

To  scratch  with,  like  thy  talons,  can’t  avail? 
Let’s  try,  forthwith  ! 

Sphinx.  (Mildly.)  Here  thou  mayst  ever 
dwell ; 

But  from  our  midst  thyself  wilt  soon  expel. 

In  thine  own  land  art  wont  thyself  to  please. 
If  I mistake  not,  here  thou’rt  ill  at  ease. 

Mephis.  Enticing  art  thou,  when  above 
descried  ; 

But  with  the  beast  below.  I’m  horrified. 

Sphinx.  Thou  false  one,  thou  shalt  bitterly 
repent : 

These  paws  are  sound : but  as  for  thee, 

With  thy  shrunk  hoof  thou’rt  not  content. 

It  seems,  in  our  society. 

Sirens.  (Preluding  above.) 

Mephis.  What  birds  are  those,  on  poplar 
bough 

Swinging,  the  river  banks  along  ? 

Sphinx.  Beware  ! the  noblest  have  ere  now 
Been  master’d  by  the  Sirens’  song  ! 

Sirens.  Ah  ! Misguided  one,  why  linger, 
’Mid  these  hideous  wonders  dwelling  ! 
Cometh  each  melodious  singer  ; — 

Hark  ! our  choral  notes  are  swelling. 

As  beseems  the  Siren-throng. 

Sphinxes.  ( Mocking  them  m the  same  mel- 
ody.) Force  them  downward,  hither 
faring  ; 

’Mid  the  boughs  themselves  concealing. 

They  to  seize  you  are  preparing : 


Ugly  falcon-claws  revealing. 

If  ye  hearken  to  their  song. 

Sirens.  Envy,  Hate,  avaunt  ye  ! Listen  ! 
All  the  brightest  joys  that  glisten, 

’Neath  the  sky,  assemble  we  ! 

Now  with  joy  in  every  feature. 

Hail  we  gladly  every  creature. 

On  the  earth  or  in  the  sea  ! 

Mephis.  Dainty  novelties, — there  ring 
From  the  throat,  and  from  the  string 
Tones  that  sweetly  interweave. 

Trills  on  me  away  are  thrown ; 

Tickle  they  mine  ear  alone. 

But  untouch’d  my  heart  they  leave. 

Sphinxes.  Speak  not  of  hearts,  for,  I be- 
lieve, 

A leathern  wallet  in  its  place, 

Shrivell’d,  would  better  suit  thy  face. 

Faust.  (Entering.)  The  spedlacle  con- 
tents me  ; — wondrous  creatures, 
Ill-favor’d,  3'et  with  large  and  stalwart  features. 
E’en  now,  I augur  an  auspicious  fate  ; 

Whither  doth  me  that  earnest  glance  translate? 

\Pomting  to  the  Sphinxes. 
Once  before  such  took  CEdipus  his  stand  ; 

(^Pointing  to  the  Sirens. 
Writhed  before  such  Ulyss  in  hempen  band  ? 

'(Pointing  to  the  An  i s. 

By  such  the  mightiest  treasure  was  upstor’d. 

(Pointing  to  the  Griffins. 
With  true  and  faithful  watch,  these  kept  the 
hoard. 

I feel  new  life  my  being  penetrate  ; 

Great  are  the  forms,  the  memories  are  great ! 
Mephis.  Once  thou  such  shapes  had 
scouted,  now 

Thou  seemest  friendly  to  their  kind  ; 

E’en  monsters  welcome  are,  I trow. 

To  him  who  would  the  lov’d  one  find. 

Faust.  (To  the  Sphinxes.)  Ye  women 
shapes,  straight  must  ye  answer  me : 

Hath  one  of  you  chanc’d  Helena  to  see? 
Sphinx.  We  reach  not  to  her  day ; the  last 
was  slain 

By  Hercules;  some  tidings  thou  mayst  gain 
From  Chiron,  canst  thou  him  detain. 

Round  on  this  ghostly  night  he  doth  career ; 
If  he  will  answer  thee,  thy  goal  is  near. 

Sirens.  Thou,  for  certain,  shalt  not 
fail  ! . . . 

When  Ulysses,  with  us  whiling. 

Sped  not  forward,  un reviling. 

He  hath  told  us  many  a tale. 

All  to  thee  we  would  confide. 

If  ’midst  Ocean’s  purple  tide, 

To  our  seats  thou  wouldst  repair. 


Sphinx.  Noble  one,  their  guile  beware  ! 

As  Ulysses  to  the  mast, — 

Thee  let  our  good  counsel  bind. 

Canst  thou  noble  Chiron  find, 

Thy  desire  wilt  gain  at  last.  \_Exit  Faust. 
AIephis.  (Peevishly.)  What  croaks,  on 
pinions  rushing  by? 

So  swiftly  they -elude  the  eye, 

In  single  file  they  hurrying  fly ; 

The  hunter  they  would  tire,  I ween. 

Sphinx.  Like  storm  of  wintry  tempest, 
these. 

Scarce  reach  Alcides’  arrows  keen — 

They  are  the  swift  Stymjihalides  ; 

Their  croaking  too  is  kindly  meant. 

With  foot  of  goose  and  vulture  beak ; 

To  mingle  in  our  sphere  they  seek. 

Their  cousinship  to  prove  intent. 

Mephis.  (Scared.)  There  whiz  some  other 
forms  of  ill — 

Sphinx.  For  fear  of  these  you  need  not 
quake : 

These  are  the  heads  of  the  Lermean  snake. 
Shorn  from  the  trunk,  and  think  they’re  some- 
thing still. 

But  say  what  meaneth  this  distress? 

This  troubled  air,  this  restlessness? 

Where  would  you  go  ? Be  off,  I say  ! 

The  group,  that  yonder  meets  mine  eye. 

Leads  you  to  turn  your  neck  awry. 

Be  not  constrain’d  ! Begone  ! Away  ! 

And  greet  full  many  a visage  fair  ! 

The  Lamice,  wantons  sly,  are  there. 

With  forehead  bold,  and  winning  smile. 

As  they  the  Satyr-race  beguile  : 

With  them  the  goat’s  foot  all  may  dare. 

Mephis.  You’ll  stay,  that  I may  find  you 
here  again. 

Sphinx.  Yea  ! mingle  with  the  airy  train  ! 
From  Egypt  we  the  custom  own. 

That  each  a thou.sand  years  should  keep  her 
throne. 

.\nd  to  our  place,  if  due  respedi  ye  pay. 

We  rule  the  lunar,  rule  the  solar  day. 

We,  the  Pyramids  before. 

Sit  for  judgment  of  the  nations. 

War  and  peace  and  inundations — 

Change  our  features  never  more. 


Peneios. 

Surrounded  by  waters  and  Nymphs. 
Peneios.  Sedgy  whispers,  gently  flow  ; 
Sister  reeds  breathe  faint  and  low  ; 


Willows  lightly  rustle  ye. 

Lisp  each  trembling  poplar-tree. 

To  my  interrupted  dream  ! 

Wakens  me  a tempest  drear; 

From  my  rest  a trembling  fear 
Scares  me,  ’neath  my  flowing  stream. 
Faust.  ( Approaching  the  stream.) 

By  mine  ear  I must  believe. 

Where  these  arbors  interweave 

Bush  and  bough,  there  breathes  around. 

As  of  human  voice  the  sound  ; 

Prattling  seems  each  wave  to  play. 

And  the  breeze  keeps  holiday. 

Nymphs.  (7b  Faust.)  Oh,  best  were  it 
for  thee. 

Way-weary  and  sore. 

In  coolness  reclining. 

Thy  limbs  to  restore  ; — 

The  rest  thus  enjoying 
That  from  thee  doth  flee  ; 

We  rustle,  we  murmur. 

We  whisper  to  thee  ! 

Faust.  Yes,  I’m  awake  ! Let  them  haYe 
sway. 

These  peerless  shapes,  as  in  their  play 
Follows  mine  eye,  in  eager  quest. 

How  strange  the  feeling  ! What  are  these  ? 
Dreams  are  they  ? Are  they  memories  ? 
Already  once  wert  thou  so  bless’d. 

Athwart  thick-woven  copse  and  bush 
Still  waters  glide ; — they  do  not  rush. 

Scarcely  they  rustle  as  they  flow : 

From  every  side  their  currents  bright 
A hundred  crystal  springs  unite. 

And  form  a sloping  bath  below. 

Young  nymphs,  whose  limbs  of  graceful 
mould. 

The  gazer’s  raptur’d  eyes  behold. 

Are  in  the  liquid  mirror  glass’d  ! 

Bathing  with  joyance  all-pervading. 

Now  boldly  swimming,  shyly  wading. 

With  shout  and  water-fight  at  last. 

Contented  might  I be  with  these. 

Mine  eye  be  charm’d  with  what  it  sees; 

Yet  to  yon  covert’s  leafy  screen 
My  yearning  glance  doth  forward  press. 

The  verdant  wealth  of  whose  recess 
Shrouds  from  my  gaze  the  lofty  queen. 

Most  wonderful ! Swans  now  draw  near ; 
Forth  from  the  bays  their  course  they  steer. 
Oaring  with  majestic  grace  ; 

Floating,  tenderly  allied. 

But  with  self-complacent  pride. 

Head  and  beak  they  move  apace  ! 

But  one  seems  before  the  rest. 

Joyfully  the  wave  to  breast. 


l 20 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUST'.  SECOND  PART. 


FAUST  MOUNTED  ON  CMIKON. 


Sailing  swift,  without  a peer  ; 

Swells  his  plumage,  wave  on  wave. 

That  the  answering  flood  doth  lave ; — 

He  the  hallow’d  spot  doth  near.  . . . 

Now  the  others  swim  together. 

To  and  fro,  with  shining  feather ; 

Soon  in  splendid  strife,  they  scare 
All  the  timid  maids  away ; 

That,  from  duty  swerving,  they 
For  themselves  alone  may  care. 

Nymphs.  Sisters,  hearken,  lay  your  ear 
To  the  water’s  grassy  bound  ! 

Ringeth,  if  I rightly  hear. 

As  of  horse’s  hoof  the  sound. 

Would  I knew,  who  on  this  night. 
Message  bears  in  rapid  flight. 

Faust.  As  it  seems,  the  earth  indeed 
Echoes  ’neath  a hurrying  steed. 

Yonder  turns  my  glance  ! 

Can  such  blessed  chance 
Wait  upon  me  here  ? 

Marvel  without  peer  ! 

Hither  a rider  swift  doth  scour — 

Endow’d  with  spirit  and  with  power— 

Borne  by  a snow-white  steed  is  he.  . . . 

I err  not,  him  I seek  is  found — 

Of  Philyra  the  son  renown’d  ! — 

Halt!  Chiron!  Halt!  Fd  speak  with  thee.  . . . 
Chiron.  How  now!  what  would’st  thou? 
Faust.  Thy  course  arrest  ! 

Chiron.  I pause  not. 

Faust.  Take  me  with  thee ; grant  my  quest ! 
Chiron.  Mount  ! So  I can  inquire,  as  on 
we  fare. 

Whither  art  bound  ? Thou  standest  on  the 
banks ; 

Prepar’d  I am,  thee  through  the  stream  to 
bear. 

Faust.  ( Afounting. ) Where’er  thou  wilt. 
Have  evermore  my  thanks.  . . . 

The  mighty  man,  the  pedagogue  of  old 
Whose  fame  it  was,  a hero-race  to  mould  : 

The  noble  Argonauts,  with  all  their  peers. 

Who  form’d  the  poet’s  world,  in  bygone 
years — 

Chiron.  That  pass  we  over  ! Pallas’  self 
indeed 

As  Mentor  is  not  honor’d  ; to  my  thought. 
All,  in  the  end,  in  their  own  way  proceed. 

As  though,  in  sooth,  they  never  had  been 
taught. 

Faust.  The  leech  who  names  each  plant, 
who  knows 

All  roots,  e’en  that  which  deepest  grows, 

W ounds  who  assuageth,  sickness  who  doth  chase. 
In  mind  and  body’s  strength  I here  embrace — 


Chiron.  Were  hero  wounded  on  the  field. 
Counsel  and  aid  I could  impart ; 

But,  in  the  end,  to  priests  I yield. 

And  women-herbalists  my  healing  art. 

Faust.  In  thee  the  truly  great  man 
speaks. 

To  words  of  praise  who  stops  his  ears ; 

Who  a6ls,  while  privacy  he  seeks. 

As  were  he  one  of  many  peers. 

Chiron.  Well  skill’d  thou  seemest,  to  be- 
guile 

People  and  prince  with  glozing  wile. 

Faust.  At  least  by  thee  ’twill  be  con- 
fess’d,— 

The  greatest  of  thy  time  hast  seen,  the  best ; 
Hast  with  the  noblest  vied,  in  earnest  strife. 
And  liv’d  of  demigods  the  arduous  life  ! 

But  ’mong  those  figures  of  heroic  mould. 

In  virtue  whom  pre-eminent  didst  hold  ? 
Chiron.  In  the  high  circle  of  the  Argo- 
nauts, 

Each  valiant  was  in  fashion  of  his  own. 

And,  by  the  virtue  which  inspir’d  his  thouglits. 
Where  others  fail’d,  he  could  suffice  alone  ; 
The  Dioscuri  ever  did  prevail 
Where  youthful  bloom  and  beauty  turn’d  the 
scale  ; 

Resolve,  prompt  deeds  for  others’  welfare, 
these 

The  portion  fair  of  the  Boreades ; 

Refledtive,  wary,  strong,  in  council  wise, 

So  Jason  lorded,  dear  to  woman’s  eyes. 

Then  Orpheus,  tender,  contemplative  still ; — 
Smote  he  the  lyre,  all  own’d  his  wondrous 
skill. 

Lynceus,  through  rocks  and  shoals,  who,  keen 
of  sight. 

Guided  the  holy  ship,  by  day  and  night. 

In  fellowship  is  danger  fronted  best. 

Where  one  achieves,  extoll’d  by  all  the  rest. 
Faust.  Of  Hercules  to  me  wilt  naught  im- 
part ? 

Chiron.  Alas ! wake  not  the  longing  in 
my  heart.  . . . 

Never  had  Phoebus  met  my  gaze. 

Ares,  or  Hermes, — such  their  name  ; 

When,  as  divine  what  all  men  praise 
Before  my  raptured  vision  came  ! 

A monarch  born,  in  youth  array’d 
With  glorious  beauty  ; homage  due 
He  to  his  elder  brother  paid. 

And  to  the  loveliest  women  too ; 

His  second  bears  not  Mother  Earth, 

Nor  Hebe  leads  to  heaven  again  ; 

Song  strives  in  vain  to  tell  his  worth. 

Tortur’d  is  marble  too,  in  vain  ! 


I2I 


Faust.  To  give  sucli  form  to  mortal  ken  ! 
The  sculptor’s  boasted  power  is  weak. 

The  fairest  hast  portray’d  of  men, 

Now  of  tlie  loveliest  woman  speak  ! 

Chiron.  What!  Woman’s  beauty  ! Empty- 
phrase,  j 

Too  oft  an  image  void  of  life ; I 

The  being  only  can  I praise, 

Joy-giving  and  with  gladness  rife.  i 

For  Beauty  in  herself  is  bless’ d ; j 

Grace  makes  resistless,  where  possess’d,  [ 

Like  Helena,  whom  once  I bare.  | 

Faust.  Her  thou  hast  borne? 

Chiron.  Yea  I On  this  back. 

Faust.  Was  I not  ’mazed  enough ? Alack! 
And  now  such  seat  must  bless  me  ! 

Chiron.  By  my  hair 

Me  hath  she  grasp’d,  as  thou  dost  now. 

Faust.  I lose  myself!  Oh,  tell  me,  how? 
She  is  in  truth  my  sole  desire  ! 

Her,  whence  and  whither  didst  thou  bear? 

Chiron.  Easy  to  tell  what  you  require. 
Their  little  sister,  then  the  robbers’  prey. 

The  Dioscuri  had  redeem’d  ; but  they,— 

The  ravishers,  not  wont  to  be  subdu’cl. 

Took  courage,  and  with  stormful  rage  pursu’d ; 
The  brothers,  with  their  sister,  urg’d  their  way 
'Fowards  the  marsh,  that  near  Eleusis  lay : 

The  brothers  waded  ; plashing,  over  it  I swam  ; i 
'Fhen  off  she  sprang,  and  fondly  press’d 
My  mane,  all  dripping;  self- possess’d, 

She  sooth’d  and  thank’d,  with  sweet  reserve 
and  coy  ! 

How  charming  was  she!  Young,  of  eld  the  | 
joy! 

Faust.  Just  seven  years  old.  . . . 

Chiron.  The  philologues,  I see, 

As  they  themselves  deceiv’d,  so  have  they  thee. 
Unique,  in  sooth,  your  inythologic  dame  : 

After  his  jileasure  her  the  poet  shows ; 

Forever  young,  old  age  she  never  knows ; 

Her  figure,  love-inspiring,  aye  the  same  ; 
Ravish’d  when  young,  courted  when  youth  is 
flown — 

Enough,  no  bonds  of  time  the  poets  own. 
Faust.  So  let  her  also  by  no  time  be  ! 
bound ! I 

At  Phene  by  Acliilles  she  was  found 
Beyond  time’s  limits — happiness  how  rare  ! 

In  spite  of  destiny,  love  triumph’d  there ; 

And  should  I not,  with  powerful  longing  rife. 
Draw  forth  that  matchless  figure  into  life. 

The  deathless  being,  born  of  gods  the  peer. 
Tender  as  great,  sublime  yet  ever  dear? 

I’hou  saw’st  her  once,  whom  I to-day  have 
seen,  | 


Charming  as  fair,  fair  as  desir’d,  I ween  ! 
Enthrall’d  is  my  whole  being,  heart  and 
brain ; 

I cease  to  live,  unless  I her  obtain  ! 

Chiron.  Stranger  ! Thou  art  enraptur’d, 
as  men  deem  ; 

Yet  among  spirits,  brain-struck  thou  dost  seem. 
’Tis  well  this  madness  hath  assail’d  thee  here. 
Since,  only  for  some  moments,  every  year. 

My  wont  it  is  to  Manto  to  repair ; 

She,  Hisculapius’  child,  in  silent  prayer 
Implores  her  sire,  who  honor  thus  would  gain. 
Now  to  illumine  the  physicians’  brain. 

That  from  rash  death-strokes  they  henceforth 
refrain — 

To  me  the  dearest  of  the  Sibyl’s  guild. 

Not  wildly  mov’d,  with  helpful  kindness  fill’d  ; 
After  a brief  delay,  thy  perfedt  cure. 

Through  power  of  simples,  can  her  art  secure. 

Faust.  But  cured  I would  not  be  ! My 
mind  is  strong  ! 

Then  were  I abjedl  like  the  vulgar  throng  ! 

Chiron.  Scorn  not  the  healing  of  the  noble 
fount. 

We  now  are  at  the  place;  with  speed,  dis- 
mount. 

Faust.  Whither,  upon  this  night,  with 
horror  fraught. 

Me,  through  the  pebbly  stream,  to  land  hast 
brought  ? 

Chiron.  Here  Rome  and  Hellas  madly 
spurn’d  in  fight, 

(Olympus  left,  Peneios  to  the  right,) 

The  mightiest  realm  that  e’er  in  sand  was  lost ; 
The  monarch  flies,  triumphs  the  burgher  host. 
Look  up  ! Here  stands,  significantly  near. 
The  fane  eternal,  bath’d  in  moonlight  clear. 

Manto.  ( Dreaming  within.) 

Horse-hoofs  shake  the  air. 

Rings  the  sacred  stair, 

Demigods  draw  near. 

Chiron.  Right!  Open  but  thine  eyes! 
I’m  here  ! 

Manto.  (Awaking.)  Welcome!  Thou 
hast  not  fail’d,  I see. 

Chiron.  Still  stands  thy  temjile-home  for 
thee  ! 

Manto.  Unwearied  roam’st  thou  far  and 
wide  ? 

Chiron.  In  quiet  dost  thou  aye  abide. 
While  I in  ceaseless  change  delight? 

Manto.  I wait,  time  circles  me. — This 
wight  ? 

Chiron.  Him  hath  this  ill-reputed  night 
Caught  in  its  whirl,  and  hither  brought. 
Helen,  with  mind  and  sense  distraught. 


122 


Helen,  he  for  himself  would  win, 

But  how  and  where  he  knows  not  to  begin  ; 
Worthy  is  he  thy  healing  art  to  prove. 

Manto.  Who  the  impossible  desires,  I love. 

[Chiron  is  already  far  away. 
Enter,  bold  man,  be  joy  thy  meed  ! 

This  gloomy  path  to  Proserpine  doth  lead. 

She  at  Olympus’  hollow  foot 
Doth  lurk  for  unallow’d  salute. 

In  bygone  time  I Orpheus  smuggled  here ; 

Do  thou  fare  better ! Forward  ! Do  not  fear  ! 

\_They  descend. 


The  Upper  Peneios,  as  before. 

Sirens.  Plunge  into  Peneios’  flood  ! 
There  beseems  to  swim  rejoicing. 

Song  on  song  in  chorus  voicing, 

For  the  unhallow’d  people’s  good. 

Without  water  health  is  none  ! 

In  bright  bands  to  the  Higean, 

Speed  we  now  with  sounding  pgean  ; 

Every  joy  will  then  be  won. 

[^Earthquake. 

Back  the  foaming  wave  is  rushing, 

In  its  bed  it  flows  no  more ; 

Quakes  the  earth,  the  floods  are  gushing. 
Bursting  smokes  the  pebbly  shore. 

Let  us  fly  ! Come,  every  one  ! 

Bodes  this  marvel  good  to  none. 

Hence  ! each  noble,  joyous  guest, 

Seaward  to  our  gladsome  fest. 

Where  the  wavelets’  glittering  band 
Lightly  swelling,  lave  the  strand  ; 

There  where  Luna,  mirror’d  true. 

Moistens  us  with  holy  dew  ! 

'I'here  is  life’s  unfetter’d  motion — 

Here  an  earthquake’s  dire  commotion  ! 
Hence  ! Ye  wise  ones,  fly  apace  ! 

Horror  reigneth  in  this  place. 

Seismos.  ( Bellowing  and  blustering  in  the 

depths.)  Once  more  heave  with  might  and 
main, 

With  the  shoulders  bravely  strain  : 

So  the  upper  world  we  gain. 

Where  to  us  must  all  things  bend  ! 

Sph  I NX.  What  a most  unpleasant  quaking, 
Hideous  storm-blast,  awe-awaking  ! 

What  a heaving,  what  a throe. 

Surging,  swaying,  to  and  fro  ! 

Horror  not  to  be  endur’d  ! 

But  our  j)ost  we’ll  not  forsake, 

Though  all  Hell  were  loose  to  break. 


Now  uprears  itself  a dome, 

Wonderful.  With  age  long  hoar. 

He  it  is  wlio  built  of  yore 
Delos’  isle  amid  the  foam, 

Heaving  it  from  out  the  sea. 

For  her,  a mother  soon  to  be  ; 

Striving,  pressing,  upward-tending. 

Arms  wide-stretching,  back  low-bending, 
Atlas-like,  amid  the  surf 
Shale  he  raises,  grass  and  turf. 

Pebbles,  gravel,  loam  and  sand. 

Tranquil  cradle  of  our  strand  : 

Crosswise,  he  a track  did  wrest 
From  the  valley’s  tranquil  vest : 

Caryatid,  of  giant  mould. 

He,  with  strength  that  ne’er  grows  old. 
Bears,  half  buried,  earth  his  zone, 

A huge  scaffolding  of  stone — 

But  his  course  must  here  be  stay’d  ! 
Sphinxes  here  their  stand  have  made. 

Seismos.  That  have  I wrought,  myself  alone. 
This  will  mankind  at  last  declare  ; 

Had  I not  shaken,  and  upthrown. 

How  had  the  world  been  now  so  fair? 

Into  the  pure  ethereal  blue. 

Their  crests  how  should  yon  mountains  raise. 
Had  I not  heav’d  them  forth  to  view. 

To  charm  the  painter’s  raptur’d  gaze. 

What  time  (my  sires  meanwhile  surveying, 
Chaos  and  Night),  myself  I bare 
Stoutly,  and,  with  the  Titans  playing, 

Pelion  and  Ossa  toss’d  like  balls  in  air? 

Madly  we  rag’d,  by  youthful  heat  possess’d, 
Till,  fairly  wearied  out  at  last. 

With  malice,  on  Parnassus’  crest. 

We,  like  twin-caps  both  mountains  cast.  . . . 
There  with  the  Muses’  hallowed  choir, 

Apollo  finds  a glad  retreat ; 

For  Zeus  too,  and  his  bolts  of  fire, 

I rais’d  aloft  his  glorious  seat. 

So  now,  have  I,  with  direful  strain, 

Pre.ss’d  from  the  depths  to  upper  air. 

And  joyous  dwellers  call  amain 
New  life  henceforth  with  me  to  share. 

Sphinxes.  Primeval  had  been  deem’d,  1 
trow. 

What  here  hath  struggled  into  birth. 

Had  we  ourselves  not  witness’d  how 
It  tore  itself  from  out  the  earth. 

Now  upwards  bushy  groves  themselves  extend. 
Rocks  pressing  upon  rocks  still  forward  tend  ; 
Yet  not  for  this  shall  any  sphinx  retreat : 
Untroubled  we  retain  our  sacred  seat. 

Griffins.  Gold  in  leaflets,  gold  in  flitters. 
Through  the  crannies  how  it  glitters; 


123 


Let  none  rob  you  of  the  prize — 

Up  ! to  seize  it,  Emmets,  rise  ! 

Chorus  of  Ants.  Giants,  the  light  to 
greet. 

Upward  aspiring 

Hurl’d  it ; with  pattering  feet 

Climb,  never  tiring  ! 

Nimbly  press  out  and  in  ! 

Each  cleft  is  screening 
(Seek  ye  each  crumb  to  win). 

Gold  worth  the  gleaning  ; 

Even  the  least  of  all 
Must  ye  uncover; 

Haste,  in  each  cranny  small 
Gold  to  discover. 

Swarmers,  in  quest  of  pelf 
Toil  without  leisure  ! 

Heed  not  the  hill  itself ; 

Gather  the  treasure  ! 

Griffins.  In  with  it ; pile  the  golden 
heap  ! 

Upon  it  we  our  claws  will  lay  ; 

Bolts  of  the  surest  fashion,  they 
The  greatest  treasure  safe  will  keep. 

Pigmies.  We  a footing  here  have  got. 
How  it  chanc’d,  doth  not  appear; 

Whence  we  issued,  question  not; 

Once  for  all  we’re  settled  here  ! 

Seat  for  merry  life  doth  yield. 

Every  country,  every  land; 

Is  a rocky  cleft  reveal’d. 

There  the  dwarf  is  straight  at  hand  ; 

Dwarf  and  dwarfess,  model  pair, 

Swiftly  each  its  labor  plies. 

Know  I cannot  if  it  were 
So  before  in  Paradise  ; 

Here  all  find  we  for  the  best. 

So  our  stars  we  thank  ; for  still. 

Mother  Earth,  in  east  and  west, 

Bringeth  forth  with  right  good  will. 

Dactyls.  Hath  she,  in  a single  night 
Brought  these  tiny  ones  to  light. 

She  the  smallest  will  create; 

Each  forthwith  will  find  his  mate. 

Eldest  of  the  Pigmies.  Hasten,  make 
ready. 

Prompt  be,  and  steady  ! 

Swift  to  the  deed  ! 

Let  strength  be  for  speed  ! 

Peace  still  is  reigning; 

Build  uncomplaining 
The  smithy,  to  burnish 
Armor,  and  furnish 
All  war’s  belongings 
Now  for  the  host ! 

1 24 


Ants  in  swift  throngings. 

Busily  post ; — 

Metals  procure,  and  you. 

Dactyls,  a tiny  crew. 

Yet  an  unnumber’d  band. 

Hear  our  command  ; 

Wood  bring  with  speed  ! 

Flamelets  in  secret  heap  ; 

Them  still  alive  to  keep, 

Coals  too  we  need  ! 

Generalissimo.  With  arrow  and  bow 
Now  march  on  the  foe : 

The  herons  that  o’er 
Yon  fish-pond  now  soar. 

Numberless  nesting. 

Haughtily  breasting, 

Shoot  altogether. 

That  so  we  may 
With  helm  and  feather 
Ourselves  array  ! 

Ants  and  Dactyls.  Deliverance  is  vain  ! 
I'he  iron  we  bring. 

They  forge  the  chain  ; 

Our  freedom  to  wring 
’Tis  not  yet  the  hour; 

Crouch  then  to  their  power ! 

The  Cranes  of  Ibycus.  Cry  of  murder, 
dying,  wailing  ! 

Wing-strokes,  anguish’d,  unavailing! 
What  lament,  what  agony. 

Pierces  to  our  realms  on  high  ! 

All  are  murder’d  now;  the  water. 

Red  with  blood,  betrays  the  slaughter ; 

Wanton  lust  of  ornament 

Hath  the  heron’s  plumage  shent : 

See  it  o’er  the  helmet  wave 
Of  each  greasy,  crook-legg’d  knave  ! 
Comrades  of  our  army,  ye 
Heron-wanderers  of  the  sea, 

Be  with  us  for  vengeance  mated. 

In  a cause  so  near  related  : 

Let  none  spare  or  strength  or  blood  ! 
Deathless  hatred  to  this  brood  ! 

[ They  disperse,  croaking  in  the  air. 
Mephis.  ( On  the  plaiti.)  The  Northern 
witches  ] could  curb ; with  these. 

Your  foreign  spirits,  I am  ill  at  ease. 

The  Blockberg  is  convenient  when  you  roam : 
Go  where  you  may,  you  find  yourself  at 
home  ; 

For  us  Dame  Ilsa  watches  on  her  stone, 
Heinrich  is  cheerful  on  his  mountain-throne. 
The  Snorers  grunt  if  Elend  but  appears. 

Yet  all  is  settled  for  a thousand  years ; 

But  here,  stand  still  or  walk,  and  who  can 
know 


Whether  the  ground  upheaves  not  from  be- 
low ? 

Through  a smooth  valley  merrily  I wind, 

And  all  at  once  there  rises  from  behind 
A mountain, — scarce  a mountain, — yet  of 
height 

To  intercept  the  sphinxes  from  my  sight.  . . . 
Adown  the  valley  many  a flame  aspires ; 
Round  some  adventure  quiver  still  the  fires  . . . 
Dances,  and  round  me  hovers  to  entice. 

An  amorous  crew,  with  many  a coy  device. 

But  soft  : — Accustom’d  to  forbidden  sweets. 
One  seeks  to  snatch  them,  wheresoe’er  one 
meets  ! 

Lami^.  (Luring  Mephistopheles  after 
them.)  Fleeter,  still  fleeter  ! 

Ever  advancing ! 

Then  again  staying, 

Prattling  and  playing ! 

Nothing  is  sweeter 
Than  the  hoar  sinner. 

After  us  dancing. 

Thus  to  allure ; 

Limping  and  stumbling. 

Fretting  and  grumbling. 

To  penance  sure, 

Draweth  he  nigh ; 

His  stiff  leg  dragging. 

Comes  he  unflagging. 

As  him  we  fly. 

Mephis.  (Standing  still.)  Accursed  Fate  ! 
Dupes  truly  styl’d  ! 

From  Adam  downward,  fool’d,  beguil’d  ! 

We  age — but  who’s  in  wisdom  school’d? 

Wert  not  enough  already  fool’d  ? 

We  know  how  good  for  naught  these  crea- 
tures ; 

Pinch’d  at  the  waist,  with  painted  features ; 

No  soundness  in  their  bodies  slim  ; — 

Grasp  where  we  may,  rotten  is  every  limb  : 

We  know,  we  see,  we  handle  it  in  life — 

And  yet  we  dance,  if  but  the  carrion  fife  ! 
LamIvE.  (Stopping.)  Hold!  He  con- 
siders, lingers,  stands  ; 

Meet  him,  lest  he  escape  your  hands  1 

Mephis.  (Advancing.)  Push  on!  nor, 
like  a simpleton. 

Let  web  of  doubt  entangle  thee  ! 

For  if  of  witches  there  were  none. 

The  devil  who  would  devil  be  ! 

Lami^.  Round  this  hero  circle  we  ! 

Love  for  one  within  his  breast. 

Soon  itself  will  manifest. 

Mephis.  By  this  light’s  uncertain  gleam 
Beauteous  damosels  ye  seem, 

So  from  blame  shall  you  be  free. 


Empusa.  (Lushing  in.)  And  I also  ! One 
with  you. 

Now  admit  me  to  your  crew ! 

Lami.«.  One  too  many,  she  I ween 
Spoiler  of  our  sport  hath  been. 

Empusa.  (To  Mephistopheles.) 

Thee  doth  thy  cousin  dear  salute, 

Empusa  with  the  Ass’s  foot ! 

Thine  but  a horse’s  hoof,  yet  thee. 

Cousin,  I greet  most  courteously  ! 

Mephis.  Myself  unknown  I fancied  here — 
And  yet,  alas,  near  kinsfolk  meet ; 

Erom  Hartz  to  Hellas,  far  and  near. 

So  runs  the  rede,  you’ll  cousins  greet ! 

Empusa.  I with  resolve  can  a6f,  can  take 
Full  many  a shape ; but  for  thy  sake. 

That  I to  thee  do  honor  pay. 

The  Ass’s  head  I don  to-day. 

Mephis.  I see,  with  people  of  this  sort. 
Relationship  doth  much  import ; 

Yet  come  what  may,  ’tis  all  the  same ; 

The  Ass’s  head  I must  disclaim. 

Lami^.  This  hag  avoid  ! She  comes  to 
scare 

Whatever  lovely  seems  and  fair  ; 

What  lovely  was  and  fair  before. 

When  she  draws  near,  is  so  no  more. 

Mephis.  These  smooth  slim  cousins,  short 
or  tall. 

Make  me  suspicious,  one  and  all ; 

I fear,  those  rosy  cheeks  behind, 

Some  metamorphoses  to  find. 

Laml«.  Come,  take  thy  choice ; we  many 
are. 

Catch  hold  ! If  reigns  thy  lucky  star. 

Thou  of  the  lot  mayst  draw  the  best. 

What  means  this  hankering  delay  ? 

The  wooer  wretchedly  dost  play. 

With  haughty  mien  and  lofty  crest ! 

Amid  our  troop  now  see  him  glide ; 

Throw  by  degrees  your  masks  aside, 

And  be  your  proper  selves  confess’d  ! 

Mephis.  I’ve  made  my  choice,  the  fairest, 
she  . . . (Embracing  her. 

Dry  as  a besom  ! Woe  is  me  ! 

(Seizing  another. 

And  this?  ...  a fright,  oh,  wretched  lot  ! 
Lami^.  Deserv’st  thou  better?  Think  it 
not  ! 

Mephis.  The  little  one  I fain  would 
clasp.  . . . 

A lizard  glides  from  out  my  grasp, 

And  serpent-like  her  polish’d  hair. 

Anon  a taller  one  I catch.  . . . 

A thyrsus-staff  alone  I snatch. 

That  for  a head  doth  pine-cone  wear. 


t25 


Where  will  this  end?  . . . One  plump  and 
round, 

With  whom  some  solace  may  be  found — 

I’ll  try  my  fortune  once  again  ! — 

Right  flabby,  squashy ; sucli  a prize. 

Your  Oriental  dearly  buys.  . . . 

But  ah  ! The  puff-ball  bursts  in  twain  ! 

Lami^.  Quick  as  lightning,  disunite  ! 
Hover  ye,  in  dusky  flight. 

Round  the  intruding  witch’s  son. 

In  uncertain,  ghastly  rings. 

Flitter  mice,  on  noiseless  wings  ! 

Too  cheaply  he’ll  escape  anon. 

Mephis.  (Shaking  himse/f.)  I have  not 
grown  much  wiser,  that  is  clear. 

The  North’s  absurd,  absurd  ’tis  also  here; 
Ghosts  here  as  there,  a devilish  crew. 

Folk  are  insipid,  poets  too  ! 

’Tis  here  a masquerade  as  there, 

A sensual  dance,  as  everywhere ; 

.\t  beauty’s  mask  I clutch’d  amain — 

And  seiz’d,  what  made  me  stand  aghast.  . . . 
Yet  to  deceive  myself  I’m  fain. 

If  only  longer  it  would  last ! 

(^Losing  his  way  among  the  rocks. 
Where  am  I?  Whither  tend  my  j)ains? 
Where  was  a path,  there  chaos  reigns ; 

I by  smooth  roads  have  hither  sped. 

Rude  bowlders  now  imiiede  my  tread  ; 

I clamber  up  and  down  in  vain — 

My  sphinxes,  where  shall  I regain  ? 

Ne’er  had  I dream’d  so  mad  a thing  : 

Such  mountain  in  a single  night ! 

A bold  witch-journey  is  this  flight. 

Their  Blockberg  with  them  here  they  bring  ! 

Oread.  ( From  the  natural  rock.) 

Hither  ascend  ! My  mountain  old 
Its  form  primeval  still  doth  hold— 

My  steep  and  rocky  steps  revere, 

Extremest  branch  of  Pindus — here. 

Unshaken  have  I rear’d  my  head. 

When  over  me  Pompeius  fled  ; 

Yon  phantom  shape  that  cheats  the  eye 
Away,  when  crows  the  cock,  will  fly  : 

Such  fables  oft  arise,  I see. 

And  disappear  as  suddenly. 

Mephis.  Honor  to  thee,  thou  reverend 
head  ; 

With  lofty  oak-strength  garlanded. 

Moonshine,  however  clear  and  bright, 

Faileth  to  pierce  thy  rayless  night  ! — 

But,  ’mong  the  bushes,  comes  this  way 
A light,  that  gleams  with  modest  ray. 

How  fitly  all  things  happen  thus ; 

In  truth  ! it  is  Homunculus  ! — 

Whither  away,  thou  tiny  friend  ? 

1 26 


Homunculus.  Flitting  from  place  to  place, 
I wend. 

In  the  best  sense  full  fain  I am  to  be ; 

And  long  impatiently  my  glass  to  break  ; 

Only,  from  what  I’ve  seen  and  see. 

Courage  I lack  the  step  to  take. 

But  now,  in  confidence  to  speak. 

Of  two  philosophers  the  track  I seek  ; 

I hearken’d,  their  discourse  I overheard  ; 

And  Nature — Nature — was  their  only  word  : 
Apart  from  these  I would  not  go. 

Somewhat  of  earthly  being  they  must  know. 
And  doubtless  I at  last  shall  learn 
Whither  most  wisely  I myself  may  turn. 

Mephis.  Thy  course  shape  thou  thyself. 
Be  wise ! 

For  where  your  ghosts  find  entrance,  there 
Welcome  is  your  philosopher  : 

That  you  his  art  and  favor  may  delight, 

A dozen  new  ones  he  brings  forth  to  light. 
Unless  thou  errest,  reason  dormant  lies  ; 

Wilt  thou  exist,  through  thine  own  effort  rise ! 

Homunculus.  Such  good  advice  should 
not  negledled  be. 

Mephis.  So  now  away  ! Of  this  we  more 
shall  see.  \^They  separate. 

Anaxagoras.  (71;  Thales.)  To  yield  is 
adverse  to  thy  stubborn  mind  ; 

To  bring  convidlion,  needs  there  further  proof? 

Thales.  The  wave  yields  willingly  to  every 
wind. 

But  from  the  beetling  crag  still  keeps  aloof. 

Anaxagoras.  Through  fiery  vapor  came 
this  rock  to  birth. 

Thales.  Moisture  hath  gender’d  all  that 
lives  on  earth. 

Homunculus.  (Between  them.)  To  walk 
beside  you,  suffer  me  ! 

I also  greatly  long  to  be. 

Anaxagoras.  Hast  thou,  O Thales,  ever  in 
one  night. 

Such  mountain  out  of  slime  brought  forth  to 
light  ? 

Thales.  Never  was  Nature,  with  her  living 
powers. 

Measur’d  by  scale  of  days  and  nights  and  hours ; 
By  law  each  shape  she  fashioneth,  and  hence, 
E’en  in  the  grand  there  is  no  violence. 

Anaxagoras.  Yet  such  was  here ! Plu- 
tonic savage  fire, 

Hiolian  vaporous  force,  explosive,  dire. 

Burst  through  the  ancient  crusts  of  level  earth. 
And  a new  mountain  came  forthwith  to  birth. 

Thales.  Why  further  press  the  case?  at 
any  rate, 

’Tis  there,  and  that  is  well.  In  such  debate, 


Leisure  and  precious  time  away  one  flings, 
Your  patient  folk  to  keep  in  leading-strings. 
Anaxagoras.  Quickly  with  myrmidons  the 
mountain  teems, 

The  clefts  to  people  ; forth  there  streams 
Of  pigmies,  ants  and  gnomes,  a living  tide. 
And  other  tiny  bustling  things  beside. 

(7b  Homunculus.) 

After  the  Great  hast  ne’er  aspir’d. 

But  hermit-like  hast  liv’d  retir’d  ; 

To  lordship  if  thyself  canst  bring. 

Forthwith  I’ll  have  thee  crown’d  as  king. 
Homunculus.  What  says  my  Thales? 
Thales.  Not  with  my  consent ; 

With  dwarfs  we  are  with  dwarfish  deeds  con- 
tent : 

While  with  the  great  the  dwarf  doth  greatness 
win. 

See  there : of  cranes  the  swarthy  cloud. 

They  threaten  the  excited  crowd. 

And  so  would  threat  the  king;  with  beak 
Sharp-pointed  and  with  talons  fierce. 
Down-swooping,  they  the  pigmies  pierce; 
Fateful,  their  stormful  ire  they  wreak  ; 

A crime  the  herons  doom’d  to  slaughter. 
Brooding  around  their  tranquil  water  ; 

But  that  death-shower  of  arrowy  rain. 

For  bloody  vengeance  cries  amain. 

And  doth  with  rage  their  kindred  fill. 

The  pigmies’  guilty  blood  to  spill. 

Of  what  avail  helm,  spear  and  shield? 

What  helps  the  dwarf  the  heron’s  plume? 

How  ant  and  dadlyl  shun  their  doom ! 

Wavers  the  host, — they  fly,  they  yield. 

Anaxagoras.  ( After  a pause,  solemnly.) 

If  I,  till  now,  the  powers  subterrain  praise, 

I,  in  this  hour,  my  prayers  to  heaven  up- 
raise. . . . 

Thou  thron’d  aloft,  eternal,  aye  the  same. 
Threefold  in  aspect,  and  threefold  in  name, 
Amid  my  people’s  woe  I cry  to  thee, 

Diana,  Luna,  Hecate! 

Deep  pondering  mind,  expander  of  the  breast. 
Mighty  within,  though  outwardly  at  rest. 
Unclose  the  gulfs  abyssmal  of  thy  shade, 

Be  without  spells  thine  ancient  might  dis- 
play’d ! \_Pause. 

Am  I too  quickly  heard  ? 

And  hath  my  prayer. 

Ascending  there. 

Marred  Nature’s  order  with  a word? 

And  greater,  ever  greater  draweth  near 
The  goddess’  throne,  her  full-orbed  sphere. 
Enormous,  fearful  to  the  gaze  I 
Its  fire  grows  redder  through  the  haze.  . . . 


No  nearer  ! Threatening  orb,  I pray ; — 
Ourselves  and  land  and  sea  thou’ It  sweep 
away  ! 

Was  it  then  true  that  dames  of  Thessaly 
Through  sinful  trust  in  magic,  thee 
Have  downward  from  thy  pathway  sung. 

From  thee  have  powers  most  baleful  wrung?  . . . 
The  glittering  shield,  behold,  it  darkles  ! 
Sudden  it  splits,  and  flares  and  sparkles  I 
What  a hissing  1 what  a rattling  ! 

Thunder  and  storm-blast  fiercely  battling  ! — 
Humbled  I fall  before  thy  throne — 

Pardon  1 myself  invok’d  it,  I alone. 

[ Throws  himself  on  his  face. 
Thales.  What  hath  this  man  not  seen  and 
heard  ! 

I know  not  rightly  how  with  us  it  far’d. 

Like  him  I have  not  felt  it.  Ne’ertheless 
The  hours  are  out  of  tune,  we  must  confess. 
And  Luna  calmly  as  before. 

In  her  own  place  aloft  doth  soar. 

Homunculus.  Behold  the  pigmies’  seat ! 
The  mound 

Is  pointed  now,  before  ’twas  round. 
Convulsion  huge  I felt ; a rock 
Down  from  the  moon,  with  sudden  shock. 
Hath  fallen  ; and  both  friend  and  foe 
Were  crush’d  and  slaughter’d  at  a blow  ! 

Yet  arts  like  these  I needs  must  praise. 

That,  working  with  creative  might. 

Upwards  and  downwards,  could  upraise. 

This  mountain  in  a single  night. 

Thales.  Peace!  ’Twas  but  fancy.  That 
vile  brood, — 

To  swift  destrudlion  let  them  fare  ! 

That  thou  wert  not  their  king,  is  good. 

Now  to  the  sea’s  glad  feast  repair  ! 

Strange  guests  are  honor’d  and  expefted  there. 

\They  ^vithdraw. 
Mephis.  ( Clambering  up  the  opposite  side.) 
Up  rocky  stairs  and  steep  must  I to-day. 
Through  ancient  oaks’  gnarl’d  roots  make 
toilsome  way. 

Upon  my  Hartz  the  piny  atmosphere 
Savors  of  pitch,  and  that  to  me  is  dear, 

’Tis  next  to  brimstone  . . . Here,  among  the 
Greeks, 

E’en  for  a trace  of  it  one  vainly  seeks. 
Inquisitive  I am,  and  must  inquire 
Wherewith  they  feed  hell-torment  and  hell-fire. 
Dryad.  In  thine  own  land  be  prudently 
at  home  ; 

Thou  liast  not  wit  enough  abroad  to  roam. 
Towards  home  thou  should’st  not  turn  thy 
thought ; while  here 
The  honor  of  the  sacred  oaks  revere. 


127 


Mephis.  The  lost  will  aye  in  thought  arise  ; 
What  we  are  used  to,  is  our  Paradise. 

But  say,  what  triple  obje6t  do  I trace, 

By  the  dim  light,  in  yonder  cavern’s  shade? 
Dryad.  The  Phorkyads  ! Go,  venture  to 
the  jdace. 

And  speak  to  them,  if  thou  art  undismay’d  ! 
Mephis.  And  wherefore  not  ? . . . I see 
it  with  amaze. 

Proud  as  I am,  e’en  I must  needs  confess, 
'I'heir  like  I ne’er  have  seen  ; their  ugliness 
That  of  our  hellish  hags  o’ersways  ! 

Sins  reprobated  long, — will  they 
Waken  henceforth  the  least  dismay, 

If  men  this  threefold  dread  survey? 

We  would  not  suffer  them  to  dwell 
On  threshold  of  our  dreariest  Hell ; 

Rooted  in  Beauty’s  land  of  fame, 

Here  to  be  styl’d  antique  they  claim.  . . . 
They  stir  themselves,  to  scent  me  they  appear, 
Like  vampire-bats,  their  twitter  meets  mine 
ear. 

Phorkvad.  Give  me  the  eye,  my  sisters, 
forth  to  gaze. 

So  near  our  fane  who  boldly  thus  delays  ! 
Mephis.  Most  honor’d!  To  approach  you 
give  me  leave, 

That  I your  threefold  blessing  may  receive. 

As  still  unknown  indeed  I come  to  you. 

Yet  am,  methinks,  a distant  cousin  too. 

Gods  ancient  and  rever’d  I’ve  seen  of  yore. 
Deeply  have  Ops  and  Rhea  bow’d  before ; 
Your  own  and  Chaos’  sisters,  yesternight, 

Or  night  before,  the  Parcge,  met  my  sight ; 
Yet  on  your  like  I ne’er  before  have  gaz’d. 
Silent  I am,  delighted  and  amaz’d. 

Phorkvad.  Intelligent  this  spirit  seems  to 
be. 

Mephis.  That  you  no  bard  hath  .sung,  sur- 
prises me. 

And  say,  most  worthy  ones,  how  hath  it  been 
That  of  your  charms  no  pi6Iur’d  forms  are  seen? 
Your  shapes  should  sculpture  labor  to  retain. 
Not  Juno,  Pallas,  Venus,  and  their  train  ! 
Phorkyads.  Immers’d  in  solitude  and 
night  profound. 

Such  thought  -no  entrance  to  our  mind  hath 
found  ! 

Mephis.  How  should  it,  from  the  world 
retir’d,  when  ye. 

Yourselves  by  none  beheld,  can  no  one  see  ! 
You  in  such  regions  rather  should  reside 
Where  art  and  splendor  reign  in  equal  pride, 
Where  from  a marble  block,  with  genius  rife. 
Steps  forth  each  day  a hero  into  life, 

M’here — 


Phorkyads.  Silence  I in  us  wake  no  long- 
ings new  : 

What  would  it  jirofit  us,  if  more  we  knew? 

In  night  begot,  to  things  of  night  allied. 

Unto  ourselves  scarce  known,  unknown  to  all 
beside. 

Mephis.  Not  much,  indeed,  in  such  case 
can  one  say. 

But  each  himself  to  others  can  convey  : 

One  eye,  one  tooth  suffices  for  you  three  ; 

So  would  it  tally  with  mythology, 

In  two  the  being  of  the  three  to  blend, 

And  your  third  semblance  unto  me  to  lend. 
But  for  brief  space. 

One  of  the  Phorkyads.  What  think  you, 
may  we  try? 

The  Other.  We’ll  venture — but  without 
or  tooth  or  eye. 

Mephis.  With  these  the  very  best  away 
you’ve  ta’en  ; 

Imperfedt  the  stern  image  would  remain  I 

One  of  the  Phorkyads.  Press  one  eye 
close — full  easily  ’tis  done; 

Now  of  your  canine  teeth  display  but  one — 
Forthwith,  in  profile,  perfe6l  and  complete. 
Our  sisterly  resemblance  we  shall  greet. 

Mephis.  Much  honor  1 Be  it  so  ! 

Phorkyads.  So  be  it  I 

Mephis.  (As  a Phorkvad  in  profile.) 

Done  ! 

Here  stand  I Chaos’  well-beloved  son  I 

Phorkyads.  Daughters  of  Chaos  we,  by 
ancient  right. 

Mephis.  Me  now  they  call,  oh  shame, 
hermaphrodite  ! 

Phorkyads.  What  beauty  our  new  triad 
gives  to  view  I 

Of  eyes,  and  eke  of  teeth,  we  now  have  two. 

Mephis.  Now  must  I shroud  myself  from 
mortal  sight. 

In  pool  of  hell  the  devils  to  affright.  \_Exit. 


Rocky  bays  of  the  HUgean  Sea. 

The  moon  pausing  in  the  zeitith. 

Sirens.  (Reclined  upon  the  cliffs  around, 
fluting  and  singing.)  Thou  whom  from 
thy  realm  supernal. 

Downward  drew,  with  rites  nodlurnal. 

Weird  Thessalian  sorceresses. 

With  thy  glance,  all  things  that  blesses, 

Now  illume  the  throng  that  presses 
Through  the  waves  with  billowy  motion. 
Flooding  all  the  rippling  ocean 
With  the  splendor  of  thy  light  ! 


128 


FAUST.  SPX'ONl)  I'AR'r, 


JIIE  SIKI'.NS  or  THE  .ECHiAN  SEA, 


I 


Luna  fair,  thy  vassals  greet  thee ; 

Be  propitious,  we  entreat  thee  ! 

Nereids  and  Tritons.  ( As  wonders  of  the 
sea.)  Sing  aloud,  with  shriller  singing, 
Let  it,  through  broad  ocean  ringing. 

Call  its  people,  far  and  near  ! — 

From  the  storm’s  dread  whirlpools  hiding. 

We  in  stillest  depths  were  biding ; 

Gracious  song  allures  us  here. 

See,  we  deck  ourselves  enraptur’d, 

With  the  treasures  we  have  captur’d. 

Golden  chain  and  clasp  and  gem, 

Spangled  zone  and  diadem  ; 

All  this  fruitage  is  your  prey; 

Down  to  us  these  shipwreck’d  treasures, 

You  have  lur’d  with  your  sweet  measures. 

You,  the  Daemons  of  our  bay  ! 

Sirens.  Well  we  know,  through  sea- waves 
gliding. 

In  their  crystal  depths  abiding. 

Live  the  fishes,  sorrow-free  ; 

Yet  blithe  roamers,  hither  thronging. 

We  to-day  to  know  are  longing 
That  ye  more  than  fishes  be. 

Nereids  Tritons.  Ere  your  song  hath 
hither  brought  us, 

Of  this  question  we’ve  bethought  us; 

Sisters,  Brothers,  hasten  we ! 

Briefest  journey,  doubt  dispelling, 

Yieldeth  proof  sufficing,  telling 

That  we  more  than  fishes  be  ! [ They  retire. 

Sirens.  In  a twinkling,  straight  away. 
Sped  to  Samothrace  have  they. 

Vanish’d  with  a favoring  wind  ! 

What  their  purpose  ? what  to  gain. 

Where  the  high  Cabiri  reign  ? 

Gods  they  are,  the  strangest,  who, 
Self-evolv’d,  are  ever  new. 

Yet  to  their  own  nature  blind. 

Kindly  linger  on  thy  height. 

Gracious  Luna,  that  the  night 
'I'arry  may,  lest  daylight  breaking 
Drive  us  hence,  our  haunts  forsaking  ! 

Thales.  ( On  the  shore,  to  Homunculus,  j 
Thee  to  old  Nereus  gladly  would  I lead  ; 

Not  distant  are  we  from  his  cave  indeed  ; 

But  sour  he  is  and  obstinate. 

Moreover  hath  a stubborn  pate  ! 

The  race  entire  of  mortal  kind 
Is  never  to  the  grumbler’s  mind. 

But  he  the  future  can  disclose. 

Hence  each  to  him  due  reverence  shows. 


And  gives  him  honor  at  his  post ; 

To  many  he  hath  rendered  aid. 

Homunculus.  Let’s  knock,  that  trial  may 
be  made ! 

At  once  my  glass  and  flame  it  will  not  cost. 
Nereus.  Men’s  voices  are  they,  that  mine 
ear  hath  heard  ? 

With  anger  straight  mine  inmost  heart  is 
stirr’d  1 

Forms — striving  still,  who  high  as  gods  would 
soar. 

Yet  to  be  like  themselves,  doom’d  evermore. 
Long  years  could  I have  dwelt  in  godlike  rest. 
But  ever  was  impell’d  to  aid  the  best ; 

And  when  at  last  I saw  the  accomplish’d  deed, 
It  was  as  though  they  ne’er  had  heard  my 
rede. 

Thales.  Yet  people  trust  in  thee,  thou 
Ocean  Seer ; 

Wise  art  thou  ; chase  us  not  ! This  flamelet 
here. 

That  man’s  similitude  doth  wear,  survey. 

In  everything  thy  counsel  he’ll  obey. 

Nereus..  Counsel  ! What  good  to  men 
hath  counsel  brought  ? 

On  stubborn  ears  fall  prudent  words  in  vain; 
Ofr  as  the  deed  dire  punishment  hath  wrought, 
Self-will’d  as  ever  mortals  aye  remain. 

How  fatherly  I Paris  warn'd,  or  e’er 
His  lust  another’s  consort  did  ensnare  ! 

On  Hellas’  shore  fearless  he  stood  and  bold  ; 
What  I in  spirit  saw,  I there  foretold  ; 

The  reeking  winds,  the  upstreaming  ruddy 
glow. 

Rafters  ablaze,  murder  and  death  below, 
Troy’s  day  of  doom — -fast  bound  in  deathless 
rhyme, 

terror  and  a portent  for  all  time. 

The  scoffer  mock’d  the  old  man’s  oracle  ; 

He  follow’d  his  own  lust,  and  Ilion  fell, 

A giant  corpse,  slowly  its  death-pangs  ceas’d, — 
To  Pindus’  eagles  a right  welcome  feast. 
Ulysses  too — did  I not  oft  presage 
To  him  dark  Circe’s  wiles,  the  Cyclop’s  rage, 
His  own  delay,  his  comrades’  reckless  vein. 
And  what  not  else?  And  hath  it  brought  him 
gain  ? 

Till,  sorely  batter’d,  he  full  late,  at  last. 

By  favoring  wave  on  friendly  shore  was  cast. 
Thales.  Such  condubt  to  the  sage  must 
needs  give  pain  ; 

Yet  still  the  good  man  trieth  once  again. 

A grain  of  thanks  that  richly  him  repays. 
Tons  of  ingratitude  still  overweighs. 

1 and  this  youngster  no  slight  boon  require. 
Wisely  to  be  is  now  his  sole  desire. 


1 29 


Nereus.  Spoil  not  for  me  my  present 
mood,  most  rare ! 

Far  other  aims  to-day  engross  my  care ; 

My  daughters  I’ve  invok’d  to  come  to  me, 

The  Dorides,  the  Graces  of  the  sea. 

Neither  Olympos  nor  your  region  bears  j 

Form  so  replete  with  grace,  so  lithe  as  theirs. 
From  Dragons  of  the  sea,  with  loveliest  mo-  t 
tion, 

They  cast  themselves  upon  the  steeds  of 
Ocean, 

One  with  the  element  that  round  them  plays, 
'Fhe  very  foam  would  seem  their  forms  to 
raise. 

’Mid  rainbow-hues  of  Venus’  pearly  car. 

Comes  Galatea,  beauty’s  choicest  star. 

Who,  since  on  us  hath  Cypris  ceas’d  to  smile. 
As  goddess  honored  is  on  Paphos’  Isle ; 

And  so  for  long  the  gracious  one  doth  own. 

As  heiress,  temple-town  and  chariot-throne. 

Away  ! Harsh  words,  and  hatred  in  the  heart 
Have  in  the  Father’s  raptur’d  hour  no  part.  ; 
Away  to  Proteus  ! Ask  that  being  strange 
'I'he  secret  of  existence  and  of  change. 

\_He  retires  towards  the  sea. 
Thales.  We  by  this  step,  it  seems,  have 
nothing  won  ; 

For  if  we  light  on  Proteus,  straight  he’s  gone. 
And  if  he  wait,  he  only  says  at  last 
Things  that  perplex,  and  make  one  stand 
aghast. 

Yet,  once  for  all,  such  counsel  thou  dost  need  ; 
So  then  to  try  him,  onward  let  us  speed  ! 

YThey  retire. 

Sirens.  ( On  the  rocks  above.) 

What  are  these,  far  off  appearing. 

Through  the  billowy  realm  careering  ? 

Like  to  sails  of  snowy  whiteness. 
Zephyr-guided,  such  their  brightness. 
Hither  borne  with  gentle  motion, 

'These  the  lustrous  nymphs  of  Ocean  ! 
Downward  climb  we;  hark!  They’re 
singing ; 

Hear  ye  not  their  voices  ringing  ! 

Nereids  and  Tritons.  Those  whom  thus 
our  hand  upraises 

Scatter  blessings  ; — sing  their  praises  ! 
From  Chelone’s  giant  shield. 

Shines  an  awful  form  reveal’d  : 

Gods  they  are  whom  we  rejoicing 
Hither  bring,  glad  paeans  voicing. 

Sirens.  Little  in  height. 

Potent  in  might. 

Hoar  gods  from  the  wave 
'The  shipwreck’d  who  save  I 


Nereids  and  Tritons.  To  our  peaceful 
revel  speeding. 

The  Cabiri  we  are  leading; 

Where  their  power  the  hapless  shieldeth. 

Kindly  sway  there  Neptune  wieldeth. 

Sirens.  Yield  we  must  to  }ou. 

Ye  the  sinking  crew. 

With  resistless  power. 

Save  in  shipwreck’s  hour. 

Nereids  and  'Tritons.  Three  we  bring, 
our  triumph  sharing. 

But  the  fourth  refus’d,  declaring 
'That  for  all  abiding  yonder. 

He  the  sole  one  is  to  ponder. 

Sirens.  'Thus  one  god  doth  jeer 
At  his  fellows  still. 

All  the  good  revere. 

Dread  ye  every  ill ! 

Nereids  and  Tritons.  There  of  them 
should  seven  be. 

Sirens.  Where  then  are  the  other  three? 

Nereids  and  Tritons.  That  we  cannot 
answer : rather. 

On  Olympos  question  farther  : 

There  the  eighth  perchance  is  pining. 
Whom  none  thinks  upon.  Inclining 
Graciously,  they  us  have  greeted — 

But  all  are  not  yet  completed. 

The  incomparable,  these  ; — 

Pressing  onward,  aye  aspiring. 

Full  of  longing,  still  desiring 
What  can  ne’er  be  reach’d,  to  seize. 

Sirens.  Every  power  enthron’d. 

Sun  or  Moon  that  sways. 

In  our  prayers  is  own’d  ; 

’Tis  our  wont ; it  pays. 

Nereids  and  Tritons.  How  brightly  shines 
our  fame,  behold. 

Leading  this  festivity  ! 

Sirens.  Heroes  of  the  ancient  days 
Lack  henceforth  their  meed  of  praise. 
How  great  soe’er  their  fame  of  old  ; 
Though  they  have  won  the  fleece  of  gold. 
Ye  have  the  Cabiri. 

(Repeated  in  full  Chorus.) 

Though  they  have  won  the  fleece  of  gold. 

We  I ye  ! have  the  Cabiri. 

[77/c  Nereids  and  Tritons  pass  on. 

Homunculus.  These  uncouth  figures,  I am 
fain 

For  earthen  pots  to  take  them, 

'Gainst  them  the  wise  ones  strike  amain 

Their  stubborn  heads,  and  break  them ! 


130 


Thales.  The  very  thing  they  most  de- 
sire. 

The  rusty  coin  is  valued  higher. 

Proteus.  (Unperceived.)  This  pleases  me, 
the  old  in  fable  : 

The  stranger  ’tis,  the  more  respe<5lable  ! 

Thales.  Where  art  thou,  Proteus  ? 

Proteus.  ( Ventri/oqnizing,  ?iow  near,  now 
far  away.)  Here!  and  here  I 

Thales.  I pardon  the  stale  jest ; appear. 
And  with  a friend  vain  words  forego  ! 

From  a false  place  dost  speak,  I know. 

Proteus.  (As  from  a distance.)  Farewell ! 

Thales.  (Softly  to  Homj's^cvws.) 

He’s  close  at  hand.  Now  brightly  flare. 
He’s  curious  as  a fish  ; where’er 
He  hide  himself,  that  flame,  be  sure. 

Hither  forthwith  will  him  allure. 

Homunculus.  Full  light  Fll  pour,  yet  care 
must  take 

Lest  with  tlie  shock  the  glass  should  break. 

Proteus.  ( In  the  form  of  a gigantic  por- 
poise.) What  shines  with  radiancy  so 
dear  ? 

Thales.  ( Concealing  Homunculus,  j 
Good  I If  thou  wish  it,  thou  canst  draw  more 
near ; 

Let  the  slight  trouble  vex  thee  not,  I pray. 
Thyself  upon  two  human  feet  display. 

’Tis  solely  by  our  leave,  and  courtesy, 

I'hat  what  we  now  conceal,  who  wills  may 
see. 

Proteus.  ( In  a noble  fortii.)  Thy  sophist’s 
tricks,  it  seems,  dost  still  employ. 

Thales.  Thy  figure  to  transform  still  gives 
thee  joy. 

\^He  has  tmcovered  Homunculus. 

Proteus.  (Astonished.)  A glittering 
dwarflein  ! Ne’er  beheld  before  ! 

1'hales.  Fain  to  exist,  he  counsel  doth  im- 
plore. 

He  is,  from  him  I heard  it,  come  to  earth 
Only  half-form’d,  through  some  mysterious 
birth. 

Fairly  endow’d  with  qualities  ideal. 

The  power  he  lacks,  firmly  to  grasp  the  real, 
'fill  now  the  glass  alone  to  him  gives  weight; 
But  he  at  once  would  be  incorporate. 

Proteus.  A genuine  virgin’s  son  art  thou; 
Born  ere  thou  shouldest  be,  I trow ! 

Thales.  ( In  a whisper.)  Further  it  seem- 
eth  critical  to  me  ; 

He  an  hermaphrodite  appears  to  be. 

Proteus.  The  sooner  ’twill  succeed; 
where’er 

He  comes,  he  hapj)ily  will  fare. 


j With  much  refledlion  we  may  here  dispense  ; 
j In  the  broad  sea  thy  being  must  commence ; 

I On  a small  scale  one  there  begins. 

Well  pleas’d  the  smallest  to  devour; 

Till,  waxing  step  by  step,  one  wins. 

For  loftier  achievement,  ampler  power. 

Homunculus.  A tender  air  is  wafted  here ; 
Dear  is  to  me  the  breeze,  the  fragrance  dear  ! 
Proteus.  Right,  dearest  youth  ! Farther 
away 

Still  more  delightful  ’twill  be  found  ; 

Ineffable  the  airs  that  play 
This  narrow  tongue  of  land  around, 
j Thence,  near  enough,  the  train  we  see. 

Now  floating  hither.  Come  with  me  ! 

Thales.  I too  will  go  with  thee ; proceed  ! 
Homunculus.  A threefold  spirit-step,  won- 
drous indeed  ! 


Telchines  of  Rhodes.  ( Upon  hippocampi 
and  sea-dragons,  bearing  Neptune' s tri- 
[ dent.) 

\ Chorus.  The  trident  we  forg’d,  wherewith 
Neptune  assuages 

Old  Ocean’s  wild  waves,  when  most  fiercely 
he  rages : 

j His  clouds  when  the  Thunderer  spreads  o’er 
I the  skies, 

I To  their  rolling  terrific  then  Neptune  replies ; 

I And  when  from  on  high  the  jagg’d  lightning 
I doth  leap, 

1 Then  wave  after  wave  dashes  up  from  the 
I deep ; 

I And  all  that  in  anguish  their  joint  rage  o’er- 
I power’d. 

Long  whirl’d  to  and  fro,  by  the  depth  is  de- 
vour’d ; 

To-day  then  the  sceptre  to  us  hath  he  lent. — 

Now  joyously  float  we,  serene  and  content  ! 

Sirens.  You,  to  Helios  dedicated. 

You,  to  bright  day  consecrated, 

Hail  we  to  this  hour,  whose  light 
Doth  to  Luna’s  praise  invite  ! 

Telchines.  Thou  loveliest  Queen  of  yon 
o’ervaulting  sphere. 

The  praise  of  thy  brother  with  rapture  dost 
hear : 

To  Rhodus’  blest  island  an  ear  thou  dost  lend, 

Thence  one  deathless  paean  to  him  doth  as- 
cend. 

The  day-course  he  opens  and  with  fiery  gaze. 

When  finish’d  his  journey,  our  troop  he 
surveys ; 

131 


The  cities  and  hills,  shore  and  wave,  yield  de- 
light 

To  the  glorious  God,  and  are  lovely  and 
bright. 

No  mist  hovers  o’er  us,  and  should  one  draw 
near, 

A ray  and  a zephyr — the  island  is  clear : 

His  form  the  high  god  beholds  multiplied 
there. 

As  stripling,  as  giant,  the  Mighty,  the  Fair — 
The  power  of  the  gods  it  was  we  who  began 
To  portray  in  the  form,  not  unworthy,  of 
man. 

Proteus.  Grudge  them  not  their  boastful 
.singing, 

To  the  holy  sun,  life-bringing. 

Dead  works  are  an  idle  jest. 

Fusing  mould  they  ; when  completed 
Stands  their  god  with  rapture  greeted. 
Straight  with  triumpli  swells  their  breast  1 
These  proud  gods,  so  fondly  cherish’d, — 
What  their  doom,  inquire  ye?  Prone, 

By  an  earthquake  overthrown. 

Melted,  they  long  since  have  perish’d. 

Toil  of  earth,  whate’er  it  be. 

Nothing  is  but  drudgery  ; 

Life  in  ocean  better  fareth  : 

Thee  to  endless  water  beareth 
Proteus-Dolphin.  [//e  transforms  himself. 
Fairly  sped  ! 

Bravely,  on  my  back  careering. 

Thou  shalt  prosper,  onward  steering. 

And  to  Ocean  thee  Fll  wed. 

Thales.  Obey  the  noble  inspiration. 

And  at  its  source  begin  creation. 

Make  ready  for  the  great  emprise  ! 

By  laws  eternal  .still  ascending, 
d’hrough  myriad  forms  of  being  wending, 

I'o  be  a man  in  time  thou’ It  rise. 

[Homunculus  mounts  the  Proteus  dolphin. 
Proteus.  In  spirit  come  to  boundless 
ocean  : 

Unfetter’d  there  in  every  motion. 

At  thine  own  ])leasiire  thou  shalt  wend  ; 

But  let  not  higher  rank  allure  thee ; 

Attaining  manhood,  I assure  thee, 

Then  all  with  thee  is  at  an  end  ! 

Thales.  As  it  may  happen;  good  it  seems 
to  me. 

In  one’s  own  day  a stalwart  man  to  be. 

Proteus.  ( To  Thales.  ) One  of  your 
stamp,  perchance  ! For  they 
.\bide  awhile,  nor  pass  away; 

Since  ’mong  the  troops  of  spirits  jtale. 

As  pass  the  centuries,  thy  form  I hail. 


Sirens.  ( On  the  rocks.)  See  yon  cloud- 
lets, how  they  mingle 
Round  the  moon  in  circlet  bright ! 

Doves  they  are,  whom  love  doth  kindle, 
With  their  pinions  pure  as  light ! 

Paphos  hath  her  bird-choir  sent  us. 

Girt  with  radiance  they  appear. 

Now  our  fete  may  well  content  us, 
Fraught  with  rapture  ftill  and  clear ! 

Nereus.  ( Approaching 'X'nia.Y.'i.)  Yonder 
ring,  an  airy  vision 
Nightly  wanderer  might  maintain  ; 

But  with  juster  intuition. 

Other  views  we  entertain  : 

Doves  they  are,  whose  escort  playeth 
Round  my  daughter’s  pearly  car  ; 

Wondrous  art  their  movement  swayeth, 
Learn’d  by  them  in  days  afar. 

Thales.  That  I also  hold  for  best. 

Peace  that  yieldeth  to  the  good. 

If  in  warm  and  silent  nest 
Something  holy  still  doth  brood. 

PsYLLi  and  Marsh  [ On  sea-bulls,  sea- 
calves,  and  sea-rams.)  In  the  rugged 
C}'prian  caves. 

Shelter’d  from  the  shocks  of  Ocean, 

From  the  earthquake’s  dire  commotion, 
Fann’d  by  Zephyr’s  viewless  waves. 

There,  as  in  the  days  afar. 

We,  with  conscious  rapture,  are 
Guardians  of  Cythera’s  car. 

And  through  breathings  of  the  night. 

Through  the  rippling  wavelets  bright. 

Viewless  still  to  mortal  sight. 

We  the  lovelie.st  daughter  lead. 

Us  nor  winged  lion  scares. 

Nor  eagle,  as  our  task  we  ply. 

Nor  cross,  nor  crescent,  though  it  flares 
Aloft,  emblazon’d  in  the  sky; 

To  and  fro,  alternate  swaying. 

Each  the  other  driving,  slaying, 

Fields  and  towns  in  ashes  laying: 

Thus  with  joyous  speed. 

Onward  our  loveliest  mistress  we  lead. 

Sirens.  Circling  still,  with  gentle  mo- 
tion. 

Round  the  chariot,  line  on  line. 

Gliding  o’er  the  waves  of  ocean. 

With  your  movements  serpentine. 

Come  ye  stalwart  Nereides, 

Sturdy  damsels,  gracious,  wild ; 

Bring  ye,  tender  Dorides, 

Galatea,  fair  and  mild. 

Image  of  her  mother,  she 
Earnest  is,  of  god-like  mien. 

Worthy  immortality. 


132 


Yet,  like  earth’s  fair  dames,  your  queen 
Winsome  is,  with  grace  serene  ! 

Dorides.  ( Passing  in  chorus  before 
Nereus,  mounted  upon  dolphins.) 

Luna,  light  and  shadow  throwing. 

Round  this  youthful  band,  shine  clear ! 

For  we  come  our  Father  showing 
Prayerfully,  our  bridegrooms  dear. 

{To  Nereus.) 

Them,  soft  pity’s  voice  obeying. 

From  the  rock’s  fell  tooth  we  bore. 

And  on  moss  and  sea-weed  laying. 
Warm’d  them  back  to  light  once  more; 
Kisses  upon  us  bestowing. 

Thus  their  grateful  temper  showing ; 

View  them  kindly,  we  implore  ! 

Nereus.  Precious  indeed  the  twofold 
gain : 

To  show  compassion,  and  delight  obtain  ! 
Dorides.  Dost  praise,  O Father,  our  en- 
deavor ? 

Grudge  us  not  our  joy,  well-earn’d ; 
Deathless  youth,  enjoyed  forever 
In  the  bliss  of  love  return’d  ! 

Nereus.  Would  ye  enjoy  your  captur’d 
treasure  ! 

Then  mould  each  youth  to  be  a man  ; 
Powerless  am  I to  do  your  pleasure ; 

Accord  your  prayer  Zeus  only  can. 

The  waves,  whose  foam  around  you  playeth. 
All  steadfastness  in  love  ignore. 

And  if  its  spell  no  longer  swayeth. 

Then  place  them  quietly  ashore. 

Dorides.  Dear  ye  are,  sweet  youths,  in 
sooth  ; 

Yet  from  you  we  needs  must  sever : 

We  have  crav’d  eternal  truth. 

But  the  Gods  allow  it  never ! 

The  Youths.  Gallant  sailor-youths  and 
true. 

If  ye  still  will  fondly  tend  us; 

Life  so  fair  we  never  knew, 

Nor  could  fate  a fairer  .send  us. 

[Galatea  approaches  in  the  shell  chariot. 

Nereus.  ’Tis  thou,  my  beloved  one  ! 
Galatea.  O Sire  ! what  delight ! 

Linger,  ye  dolphins,  enchain’d  is  my  sight. 

Nereus.  Gone  already  ! They  forsake  me. 
Speeding  on  with  circling  motion  ! 

What  to  them  the  heart’s  emotion  ! 

Oh  ! that  with  them  they  would  take  me  ! 

Yet  such  rapture  yields  one  gaze. 

The  livelong  year  it  well  repays. 

d HALES.  Hail ! all  hail  1 The  cry  re- 
new ! 


Blooms  my  spirit,  pierced  through 
By  the  Beautiful,  the  True!  . . . 

All  from  water  sprang  amain  ! 

All  things  water  doth  sustain  : 

Ocean  grant  thy  deathless  reign  1 
Were  no  clouds  by  thee  outspread,. 

No  rich  brooklets  by  thee  fed. 

On  their  course  no  rivers  sped. 

And  no  streamlets  perfedled. 

What  then  were  the  world,  what  were  ocean 
and  plain  ? 

’Tis  thou,  who  the  freshness  of  life  dost  main- 
tain. 

Echo.  [ Chorus  of  the  collePlive  circles.) 
’Tis  thou,  from  whom  freshness  of  life  pours 
amain  1 

Nereus.  Far  distant  now  they  wheel  and  turn, 
And  vainly  glance  for  glance  must  yearn  ; 
Circle  in  circle  wide  extending, 

The  countless  throngs,  in  order  blending. 
Urge  o’er  the  waves  their  glad  career. 

But  Galatea’s  pearly  throne. 

Behold  I still,  behold  ; alone 
Now  it  glitters  like  a star 
’Midst  the  crowd  ; with  radiance  tender. 
Shines  through  the  press  the  lov’d  one’s  splen- 
dor ; 

Though  so  far,  so  very  far. 

Still  it  shimmers  bright  and  clear. 

Ever  true  and  ever  near  ! 

Homunculus.  In  this  moisture  calm  and 
dear. 

All  I shine  on  doth  appear 
Exquisitely  fair  ! 

Proteus.  In  this  living  dewy  sphere. 

First  thy  flamelet  shineth  clear, 

Breathing  tones  most  rare. 

Nereus.  But  lo  1 what  new  mystery,  fraught 
with  surprise. 

Reveals  itself  now,  ’mid  yon  crowds,  to  our 
eyes  ? 

What  flames  round  the  shell,  round  the  feet  of 
my  child  ? 

Now  strongly  it  glitters,  now  sweetly,  now 
mild. 

As  if  by  the  pulses  of  love  it  were  sway’d  1 
Thales.  Homunculus  is  it,  by  Proteus  be- 
tray’d . . . 

A yearning  majestic  these  symptoms  disclose, 
Presageful  they  tell  of  his  passionate  throes ; 
Against  the  bright  throne  he’ll  be  shatter’d  1 
It  glows, 

It  flashes,  it  sparkles,  abroad  now  it  flows  ! 
Sirens.  What  marvel  illumines  the  billows, 
which  dash 

Against  one  another  in  glory  ? They  flash. 


133 


They  waver,  they  hitherward  glitter,  and 
bright 

All  forms  are  ablaze  in  the  pathway  of  night ; 
And  all  things  are  gleaming,  by  fire  girt 
around. 

Prime  source  of  creation,  let  Eros  be  crown’d  ! 

Hail  ye  billows  ! Hail  to  thee. 

Girt  by  holy  fire,  O sea  ! 


Water  hail ! Hail  fire’s  bright  glare  ! 
Hail  to  this  adventure  rare  ! 

All  Together.  Hail  each  softly  blowing 
gale ! 

Caverns  rich  in  marvels,  hail  ! 

Highly  honor’d  evermore 
Be  the  elemental  four  ! 


134 


I' 


Sparta. 


Enter  Helena,  with  a chorus  of  captive 
Trojan  women.  Penthalls,  leader  of  the 
chorus. 

Helena.  The  much  admir’d  and  much 
upbraided,  Helena, 

From  yonder  strand  I come,  where  erst  we  dis- 
embark’d. 

Still  giddy  from  the  roll  of  ocean’s  billowy 
surge, 

Which,  through  Poseidon’s  favor  and  through 
Euros’  might. 

On  lofty  crested  backs  hither  hath  wafted  us, 

From  Phrygia’s  open  field,  to  our  ancestral 
bays. 

Yonder  King  Menelaus,  glad  of  his  return. 

With  his  brave  men  of  war,  rejoices  on  the 
beach. 

But  oh,  thou  lofty  mansion,  bid  me  welcome 
home. 

Thou,  near  the  steep  decline,  which  Tynda- 
reus,  my  sire. 

From  Pallas’  hill  returning,  here  hath  builded 
up; 


Which  also  was  adorn’d  beyond  all  Sparta’s 
homes. 

What  time  with  Clytemnestra,  sister-like,  I 
grew. 

With  Castor,  Pollux,  too,  playing  in  joyous 
sport. 

Wings  of  yon  brazen  portals,  you  I also  hail  ! 

Through  you,  ye  guest-inviting,  hospitable 
gates. 

Hath  Menelaus  once,  from  many  princes 
chosen. 

Shone  radiant  on  my  sight,  in  nuptial  sort 
array’d. 

Expand  to  me  once  more,  that  I the  king’s 
behest 

May  faithfully  discharge,  as  doth  the  spouse 
beseem. 

Let  me  within,  and  all  henceforth  behind  re- 
main, 

That,  charg’d  with  doom,  till  now  darkly  hath 
round  me  storm’d  ! 

For  since,  by  care  untroubled,  I these  sites 
forsook. 

Seeking  Cythera’s  fane,  as  sacred  wont  enjoin’d. 


V35 


And  by  the  spoiler  there  was  seiz’d,  the  Jdiry- 
gian, 

Happen’d  have  many  things,  whereof  men  far 
and  wide 

Are  fain  to  tell,  but  which  not  fain  to  hear 
is  he 

Of  whom  the  tale,  expanding,  hath  to  fable 
grown. 

Chorus.  Disparage  not,  O glorious  dame. 

Honor’d  possession  of  highest  estate  ! 

For  sole  unto  thee  is  the  greatest  boon  given  ; 

The  fame  of  beauty  that  all  overtowers  ! 

The  hero’s  name  before  him  resounds. 

So  strides  he  with  pride  ; 

Nathless  at  once  the  stubbornest  yields 

To  beauty,  the  presence  which  all  things  sub- 
dues. 

Helena.  Enough ! I with  my  spouse, 
ship-borne,  have  hither  sped. 

And  to  his  city  now  by  him  before  am  sent. 

But  what  the  thought  he  harbors,  that  I can- 
not guess. 

Come  I as  consort  hither?  Come  I as  a queen  ? 

Come  I as  vidfim  for  the  prince’s  bitter  pangs. 

And  for  the  evils  dire,  long  suffer’d  by  the 
Greeks  ? 

Conquer’d  1 am;  but  whether  captive,  know 
I not : 

For  the  Immortal  Powers  fortune  and  fame 
for  me 

Have  doom’d  ambiguous;  direful  ministers 
that  wait 

On  beauty’s  form,  who  even  on  this  threshold 
here. 

With  dark  and  threat’ning  mien,  stand  bodeful 
at  my  side  ! 

Already,  ere  we  left  the  hollow  ship,  my 
spouse 

Look’d  seldom  on  me,  .spake  no  comfortable 
word ; 

As  though  he  mischief  brooded,  facing  me  he 
sat. 

But  now,  when  to  Eurotas’  deeply  curving 
shores 

Steering  our  course,  scarce  had  our  foremost 
vessel’s  beak 

The  land  saluted,  spake  he,  as  by  God  in- 
spir’d : 

“ Here  let  my  men  of  war,  in  order’d  ranks, 
di  shark  ; 

I marshal  them,  drawn  up  upon  the  ocean 
strand  ; 

But  thou,  pursue  thy  way,  not  swerving  from 
the  banks. 

Laden  with  fruit,  that  bound  Eurotas’  sacred 
stream,  1 


Thy  coursers  guiding  o’er  the  moist,  enamell’d 
meads. 

Until  thou  may’st  arrive  at  that  delightful 
plain. 

Where  Lacedgemon,  once  a broad  fruit-bear- 
ing field. 

By  mountains  stern  surrounded  lifteth  now  its 
walls. 

Set  thou  thy  foot  within  the  tower-crown’d 
princely  house. 

Assemble  thou  the  maids,  whom  I at  parting 
left. 

And  with  them  summon  too  the  wise  old 
stewardess. 

Bid  her  display  to  thee  the  treasures’  ample 
store. 

As  by  thy  sire  bequeath’d,  and  which,  in 
peace  and  war. 

Increasing  evermore,  I have  myself  up-p>iled. 

All  standing  shalt  thou  find  in  ancient  order; 
for. 

This  is  the  prince’s  privilege,  that  to  his  home. 

When  he  returns  at  last,  safe  everything  he 
finds. 

Each  in  its  proper  place,  as  he  hath  left  it 
there. 

For  nothing  of  himself  the  slave  hath  power 
to  change.” 

Chorus.  Oh,  gladden  now,  with  glorious 
wealth. 

Ever  increasing,  thine  eye  and  heart ! 

For  beautiful  chains,  the  adornment  of  crowns. 

Are  priding  themselves,  in  haughty  repose; 

But  step  thou  in,  and  challenge  them  all. 

They  arm  themselves  straight ; 

I joy  to  see  beauty  contend  for  the  prize. 

With  gold,  and  with  pearls,  and  with  jewels 
of  price. 

Helena.  Forthwith  hath  follow’d  next  this 
mandate  of  my  lord  : 

“ Now  when  in  order  thou  all  things  hast  duly 
seen, 

As  many  tripods  take,  as  needful  thou  may’st 
deem, 

And  vessels  manifold,  which  he  at  hand  re- 
quires. 

Who  duly  would  perform  the  sacrificial  rite. 

The  caldrons,  and  the  bowls,  and  shallow 
altar-plates ; 

Let  purest  water,  too,  from  sacred  fount  be 
there, 

In  lofty  pitchers;  further,  store  of  season’d 
wood. 

Quick  to  accept  the  flame,  hold  thou  in 
readiness ; 

A knife,  of  sharpest  edge,  let  it  not  fail  at  last. 


136 


But  I all  other  things  to  thy  sole  care  resign.” 

So  spake  he,  urging  me  at  once  to  part ; but 
naught, 

Breathing  the  breath  of  life,  the  orderer  ap- 
points. 

That,  to  the  Olympians’  honor,  he  to  slaughter 
doom’d  : 

Suspicious  seems  it ! yet,  dismiss  I further 
care  ; 

To  the  high  gods’  decree  be  everything  re- 
ferr’d. 

Who  evermore  fulfil,  what  they  in  thought 
conceive  ; 

It  may,  in  sooth,  by  men,  as  evil  or  as  good 

Be  counted,  it  by  us,  poor  mortals,  must  be 
borne. 

Full  oft  the  ponderous  axe  on  high  the  jiriest 
hath  rais’d. 

In  consecration  o’er  the  earth-bow’ d vidtim’s 
neck. 

Nor  could  achieve  the  rite,  for  he  was  hinder’d. 

Or  by  approaching  foe,  or  intervening  God. 
Chorus.  What  now  will  happen,  canst 
thou  not  guess ; 

Enter,  queen,  enter  thou  in. 

Strong  of  heart ! 

Evil  cometh  and  good 
Unexpedted  to  mortals; 

I'hough  foretold,  we  credit  it  not. 

Troya  was  burning,  have  we  not  seen 
Death  before  us,  terrible  death  ! 

And  are  we  not  here. 

Bound  to  thee,  serving  with  joy. 

Seeing  the  dazzling  sunshine  of  heaven. 
And  of  earth  too  the  fairest. 

Kind  one — thyself — happy  are  we  ! 

Helena.  Come  what  come  may  ! What- 
e’er  impends,  me  it  behoves 

To  ascend,  without  delay,  into  the  royal 
house. 

Long  miss’d,  oft  yearn’d  for,  well-nigh  for- 
feited ; 

Before  mine  eyes  once  more  it  stands,  I know 
not  how. 

My  feet  now  bear  me  not  so  lightly  as  of  yore. 

When  up  the  lofty  steps  I,  as  a child,  have 
sprung. 

Chorus.  Fling  now,  O sisters,  ye 
Captives  who  mourn  your  lot. 

All  your  sorrows  far  from  you. 

Share  ye  your  mistress’  joy  ! 

Share  ye  Helena’s  joy. 

Who  to  the  dear  paternal  hearth. 

Though  returning  full  late  in  sooth, 
Nathless  with  surer,  firmer  tread 
Joyfully  now  approaches  ! 


Praise  ye  the  holy  ones, 

Haj)py  restoring  ones, 

Gods,  the  home-leaders,  praise  ye  ! 

Soars  the  enfranchis’d  one. 

As  upon  outspread  wings. 

Over  the  roughest  fate,  while  in  vain 
Pines  the  captur’d  one,  yearning-fraught. 
Over  the  prison -battlements 
Arms  outstretching,  in  anguish. 

Nathless  her  a god  hath  seized. 

The  exil’d  one. 

And  from  Ilion’s  wreck 

Bare  her  hitherward  bark  once  more. 

To  the  ancient,  the  newly-adorned 
Father-house, 

After  unspeakable 
Pleasure  and  anguish. 

Earlier  youthful  time. 

Newly  quicken’d,  to  ponder. 

Penthalis.  f yis  leader  of  the  Chorus.) 

Forsake  ye  now  of  song  the  joy-surrounded 
path. 

And  toward  the  portal-wings  turn  ye  forthwith 
your  gaze ! 

What  see  I,  sisters?  Here,  returneth  not  the 
queen  ? 

With  step  of  eager  haste,  comes  she  not  back 
to  us  ? — 

What  is  it,  mighty  queen,  that  in  the  palace- 
halls. 

Instead  of  friendly  hail,  could  there  encounter 
thee. 

And  shatter  thus  thy  being?  Thou  conceal’st 
it  not ; 

For  I abhorrence  see,  impress’d  upon  thy  brow. 

And  noble  anger,  that  contendeth  with  sur- 
prise. 

Helena.  ( IVho  has  left  the  folded  doors 
open,  excited. ) No  vulgar  fear  beseems 
the  daughter  of  high  Zeus, 

And  her  no  lightly-fleeting  terror-hand  may 
touch  ; 

But  that  dire  horror  which,  from  womb  of 
ancient  Night, 

In  time  primeval  rising,  still  in  divers  sha])es. 

Like  lurid  clouds,  from  out  the  mountain’s 
fiery  gorge. 

Whirls  itself  forth,  may  shake  even  the  hero’s 
breast. 

Thus  have  the  Stygian  gods,  with  horror 
fraught,  to-day 

Mine  entrance  to  the  house  so  mark’d,  that 
fain  I am. 

Back  from  the  oft-time  trod,  long-yearn’d-for 
threshold,  now. 


137 


Like  to  a guest  dismiss’d,  departing,  to  re- 
tire. 

Yet  no,  retreated  have  I hither  to  the  light  ; 

No  further  shall  ye  drive  me.  Powers,  whoe’er 
ye  be  ! 

Some  expiation  I’ll  devise,  then  purified. 

The  hearth -flame  welcome  may  the  consort  as 
the  lord. 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  Discover,  noble 
queen,  to  us  thy  handmaidens. 

Devotedly  who  serve  thee,  what  hath  come  to 
pass  ! 

Helena.  What  I have  seen  ye  too,  with 
your  own  eyes,  shall  see. 

If  ancient  Night,  within  her  wonder-teeming 
womb. 

Hath  not  forthwith  engulf’d,  once  more,  her 
ghastly  birth  ; 

But  yet,  that  ye  may  know,  with  words  I’ll  tell 
it  you : — 

What  time  the  royal  mansion’s  gloomy  inner 
court. 

Upon  my  task  intent,  with  solemn  step  I trod, 

I wonder’d  at  the  drear  and  silent  corridors. 

Fell  on  mine  ear  no  sound  of  busy  servitors. 

No  stir  of  rapid  haste,  officious,  met  my  gaze; 

Before  me  there  appear’d  no  maid,  no  stew- 
ardess. 

Who  every  stranger  erst,  with  friendly  greet- 
ing, hail’d. 

But  when  I near’d  at  length  the  bosom  of  the 
hearth. 

There  saw  I,  by  the  light  of  dimly  smoulder- 
ing fire. 

Crouch’d  on  the  ground,  a crone,  close-veil’d, 
of  stature  huge, 

Not  like  to  one  asleep,  but  as  absorb’d  in 
thought ! 

With  accent  of  command  I summon  her  to 
work. 

The  stewardess  in  her  surmising,  whom  per- 
chance 

My  spouse,  departing  hence,  with  foresight 
there  had  plac’d  ; 

Yet,  closely  muffl’d  up,  still  sits  she,  motion- 
less ; 

At  length,  upon  my  threat,  uplifts  she  her 
right  arm. 

As  though  from  hearth  and  hall  she  motion’d 
me  away. 

Wrathful  from  her  I turn,  and  forthwith  hasten 
out. 

Towards  the  steps,  whereon  aloft  the  Tha- 
lamos 

Rises  adorn’d,  thereto  the  treasure-house  hard 
by; 


When,  on  a sudden,  starts  the  wonder  from 
the  floor ; 

Barring  with  lordly  mien  my  passage,  she  her- 
self 

In  haggard  height  displays,  with  hollow  eyes, 
blood-grim’d. 

An  aspedl  weird  and  strange,  confounding  eye 
and  thought. 

Yet  speak  I to  the  winds ; for  language  all  in 
vain 

Creatively  essays  to  body  forth  such  shapes. 
There  see  herself ! The  light  she  ventures  to 
confront ! 

Here  are  we  master,  till  the  lord  and  monarch 
comes ; 

The  ghastly  brood  of  Night  doth  Phoebus, 
beauty’s  friend. 

Back  to  their  caverns  drive,  or  them  he  sub- 
jugates. 

[Phorkvas  stepping  on  the  threshold,  between 
the  door-posts. 

Chorus.  Much  have  I liv’d  through, 
although  my  tresses 

Youthfully  waver  still  round  my  temples ; 
Manifold  horrors  have  mine  eyes  witness’d  ; 
Warfare’s  dire  anguish,  Ilion’s  night. 

When  it  fell ; 

Through  the  o’erclouded,  dust  overshadow’d. 
Tumult  of  war,  to  gods  have  I hearken’d. 
Fearfully  shouting;  hearken’d  while  discord’s 
Brazen  voices  clang  through  the  field 
Rampartwards. 

Ah,  yet  standing  were  Ilion’s 
Ramparts  ; nathless  the  glowing  flames 
Shot  from  neighbor  to  neighbor  roof. 

Ever  spreading  from  here  and  there. 

With  their  tempest’s  fiery  blast. 

Over  the  night-darken’d  city. — 

Flying,  saw  I through  smoke  and  glare. 

And  the  flash  of  the  tongued  flames. 

Dreadful,  threatening  gods  draw  near; 
Wondrous  figures,  of  giant  mould. 

Onward  striding  through  the  weird 
Gloom  of  fire-luminous  vapor. 

Saw  I them,  or  did  my  mind. 

Anguish-torn,  itself  body  forth 
Phantoms  so  terrible — nevermore 
Can  I tell ; but  that  I this 
Horrible  shape  with  eyes  behold. 

This  of  a surety  know  I ! 

: Yea,  with  my  hands  could  clutch  it  even, 

' Did  not  fear,  from  the  perilous 
I Venture,  ever  withhold  me. 


Tell  me,  of  Phorkyas’ 

Daughters  which  art  thou  ? 

For  to  that  family 
Thee  must  I liken. 

Art  thou,  may  be,  one  of  the  gray-born  ? 
One  eye  only,  and  but  one  tooth 
Using  still  alternately? 

One  of  the  Graiae  art  thou  ? 

Barest  thou.  Horror, 

Thus  beside  beauty. 

Or  to  the  searching  glance 
Phoebus’  unveil  thee  ? 

Nathless  step  thou  forward  undaunted  ; 

For  the  horrible  sees  he  not. 

As  his  hallow’d  glances  yet 
Never  gaz’d  upon  shadows. 

But  a tragical  fate,  alas, 

Us,  poor  mortals,  constrains  to  bear. 
Anguish  of  vision,  unspeakable. 

Which  the  contemptible,  ever-detestable. 
Doth  in  lovers  of  beauty  wake  ! 

Yea,  so  hearken  then,  if  thou  dar’st 
Us  to  encounter,  hear  our  curse. 

Hark  to  each  imprecation’s  threat. 

Out  of  the  curse-breathing  lips  of  the  happy 
ones. 

Who  by  the  gods  created  are  ! 

Phorkyas.  Trite  is  the  word,  yet  high  and 
true  remains  the  sense  ; 

'I'hat  Shame  and  Beauty  ne’er  together,  hand 
in  hand. 

Their  onward  way  pursue,  earth’s  verdant  path 
along. 

Deep-rooted  in  these  twain  dwelleth  an  ancient 
grudge, 

So  that,  where’er  they  happen  on  their  way  to 
meet. 

Upon  her  hated  rival  turneth  each  her  back  ; 
Then  onward  speeds  her  course  with  greater 
vehemence. 

Shame  fill’d  with  sorrow.  Beauty  insolent  of 
mood. 

Till  her  at  length  embraces  Orcus’  hollow  night. 
Unless  old  age  erewhile  her  haughtiness  hath 
tam’d. 

You  find  I now,  ye  wantons,  from  a foreign 
shore, 

With  insolence  o’erflowing,  like  the  clamorous 
flight 

Of  cranes,  with  shrilly  scream  that  high  above 
our  heads, 

A long  and  moving  cloud,  croaking  send  down 
their  noise. 


Which  the  lone  pilgrim  lures,  wending  his 
silent  way. 

Aloft  to  turn  his  gaze ; yet  on  their  course 
they  fare. 

He  also  upon  his  : so  will  it  be  with  us. 

Who  are  ye  then,  that  thus  around  the  mon- 
arch’s house. 

With  Mcenad  rage,  ye  dare  like  drunken  ones 
to  rave  ? 

Who  are  ye  then  that  ye  the  house’s  stew- 
ardess 

Thus  bay,  like  pack  of  hounds  hoarsely  that 
bay  the  moon  ? 

Think  ye,  ’tis  hid  from  me,  the  race  whereof 
ye  are  ? 

Thou  youthful,  war-begotten,  battle-nurtur’d 
brood. 

Lewd  and  lascivious  thou,  seducers  and  se- 
duc’d. 

Unnerving  both  the  soldier’s  and  the  burgher’s 
strength  ! 

Seeing  your  throng,  to  me  a locust-swarm  ye 
seem. 

Which,  settling  down,  conceals  the  young 
green  harvest-field. 

Wasters  of  others’  toil ! ye  dainty  revellers. 

Destroyers  in  its  bloom  of  all  prosperity  ! 

Thou  conquer’d  merchandise,  exchang’d  and 
marketed  ! 

Helena.  Who  in  the  mistress’  presence 
chides  her  handmaidens. 

Audacious,  doth  o’erstep  her  household  priv- 
ilege ; 

For  her  alone  beseems  the  praiseworthy  to 
praise. 

As  also  that  to  punish  which  doth  merit  blame. 

Moreover  with  the  service  am  I well  content. 

Which  these  have  render’d  me,  what  time 
proud  Ilion’s  strength 

Beleaguer’d  stood,  and  fell  and  sank;  nor  less 
indeed 

When  we,  of  our  sea-voyage  the  dreary  change- 
ful woe 

Endur’d,  where  commonly  each  thinks  but  of 
himself. 

Here  also  I expe<5l  the  like  from  this  blithe 
train  ; 

Not  what  the  servant  is,  we  ask,  but  how  he 
serves. 

Therefore  be  silent  thou,  and  snarl  at  them  no 
more  ! 

If  thou  the  monarch’s  house  till  now  hast 
guarded  well 

Filling  the  mistress’  place,  that  for  thy  praise 
shall  count ; 


139 


But  now  herself  is  come,  therefore  do  thou  re- 
tire, 

Lest  chastisement  be  thine,  instead  of  well- 
earn’d  meed  ! 

Phorkyas.  The  menial  train  to  threat,  a 
sacred  right  remains. 

Which  the  illustrious  spouse  of  heaven-favor’d 
lord 

'Phrough  many  a year  doth  earn  of  prudent 
governance. 

Since  that,  now  recogniz’d,  thy  ancient  place 
as  queen. 

And  mistress  of  the  house,  once  more  thou 
dost  resume. 

The  long-time  loosen’d  reins  grasp  thou ; be 
ruler  here. 

And  in  possession  take  the  treasures,  us  with 
them  ! 

Nfe  before  all  protedl,  who  am  the  elder-bcfrn, 

From  this  young  brood,  who  seem,  thy  swan- 
like beauty  near. 

But  as  a basely  winged  flock  of  cackling  geese  ! 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  How  hideous 
beside  beauty  showeth  hideousness  ! 

Phorkyas.  How  foolish  by  discretion’s 
side  shows  foolishness  ! 

\^Henccforih  the  choristers  respond  in  turn, 
stepping  forth  singly  from  the  Chorus. 

First  Chorister.  Tell  us  of  Father  Erebus, 
tell  us  of  Mother  Night  ! 

Phorkyas.  Speak  thou  of  Scylla,  speak  of 
her,  thy  sister-born  ! 

Second  Chorister.  From  thy  ancestral 
tree  springs  many  a monster  forth. 

Phorkyas.  To  Orcus  hence,  away  ! Seek 
thou  thy  kindred  there  ! 

Third  Chorister.  Who  yonder  dwell,  in 
sooth,  for  thee  are  far  too  young. 

Phorkyas.  Tiresias,  the  hoary,  go,  make 
love  to  him  ! 

Fourth  Chorister.  Orion’s  nurse  of  old, 
was  thy  great-granddaughter. 

Phorkyas.  Harpies,  so  I suspedl,  did  rear 
thee  up  in  filth. 

Fifth  Chorister.  Thy  cherish’d  meagre- 
ness, whereon  dost  nourish  that  ? 

Phorkyas.  ’Tis  not  with  blood,  for  which 
so  keenly  thou  dost  thirst. 

Sixth  Chorister.  For  corpses  dost  thou 
hunger,  loathsome  corpse  thyself! 

Phorkyas.  Within  thy  shameless  jaw  the 
teeth  of  vampires  gleam. 

Seventh  Chorister.  Thine  I should  stop 
were  1 to  tell  thee  who  thou  art. 

Phorkyas.  First  do  thou  name  thyself ; 
the  riddle  then  is  solv’d. 


Helen.v.  Not  wrathful,  but  in  grief,  step 
I between  you  now. 

Forbidding  such  alternate  quarrel’s  angry 
noise  ■, 

For  to  the  ruler  naught  more  hurtful  can  be- 
fall. 

Than,  ’mong  his  trusty  servants,  sworn  and 
secret  strife ; 

The  echo  of  his  mandate  then  to  him  no  more. 

In  swift  accomplish’d  deed  responsively  re- 
turns ; 

No,  stormful  and  self-will’d,  it  rages  him 
around. 

The  self-bewilder’d  one,  and  chiding  still  in 
vain. 

Nor  this  alone  ; ye  have  in  rude  unmanner’d 
wrath 

Unblessed  images  of  dreadful  shapes  evok’d. 

Which  so  encompass  me,  that  whirl’d  I feel 
myself 

To  Orcus  down,  despite  these  my  ancestral 
fields. 

Is  it  remembrance?  Was  it  frenzy  seiz’d  on  me? 

Was  I all  that  ? and  am  I ? shall  I henceforth  be 

The  dread  and  iihantom-shape  of  those  town- 
wasting  ones  ? 

The  maidens  quail : but  thou,  the  eldest,  thou 
dost  stand. 

Calm  and  unmov’d;  speak,  then,  to  me  some 
word  of  sense  ! 

Phorkyas.  Who  of  long  years  recalls  the 
fortune  manifold. 

To  him  Heaven’s  highest  favor  seems  at  last  a 
dream. 

But  thou,  so  highly  favor’d,  past  all  bound  or 
goal, 

Saw’st,  in  thy  life-course,  none  but  love-in- 
flamed men. 

Kindled  by  impulse  rash  to  boldest  enterprise. 

Theseus  by  passion  stirr’d  full  early  seiz’d  on 
thee, 

A man  of  glorious  form,  and  strong  as  Her- 
acles. 

Helena.  Forceful  he  bore  me  off,  a ten- 
year  slender  roe. 

And  in  Aphidnus’  keep  shut  me,  in  Attica. 

Phorkyas.  But  thence  full  soon  set  free, 
by  Castor,  Pollux  too. 

In  marriage  wast  thou  sought  by  chosen  hero- 
band. 

Helena.  Yet  hath  Patroclus,  he,  Pelides’ 
other  self. 

My  secret  favor  won,  as  willingly  I own. 

Phorkyas.  But  thee  thy  father  hath  to 
Menelaus  wed. 

Bold  rover  of  the  sea,  and  house-sustainer  too. 


140 


Helena.  His  daughter  gave  he,  gave  to 
him  the  kingdom’s  sway  ; 

And  from  our  wedded  union  sprang  Hermione. 

Phorkyas.  But  while  he  strove  afar,  for 
Crete,  his  heritage. 

To  thee,  all  lonely,  came  an  all  too  beauteous 
guest. 

Helena.  Wherefore  the  time  recall  of  that 
half-widowhood. 

And  what  destrudlion  dire  to  me  therefrom 
hath  grown  ! 

Phorkyas.  That  voyage  unto  me,  a free- 
born dame  of  Crete, 

Hath  also  capture  brought  and  weary  servitude. 

Helena.  As  stewardess  forthwith,  he  did 
appoint  thee  here. 

With  much  entrusted, — fort  and  treasure  boldly 
won . 

Phorkyas.  All  which  thou  didst  forsake, 
by  Ilion’s  tower-girt  town 

Allur’d,  and  by  the  joys,  the  exhaustless  joys 
of  love. 


Helena.  Remind  me  not  of  joys.  No, 
an  infinitude 

Of  all  too  bitter  woe  o’erwhelm’d  my  heart 
and  brain. 

Phorkyas.  Nathless  ’tis  said  thou  didst  in 
twofold  shape  appear; 

Seen  within  Ilion’s  walls,  and  seen  in  Egypt  too. 

Helena.  Confuse  thou  not  my  brain,  dis- 
traught and  desolate  ! 

Here  even,  who  I am  in  sooth  I cannot  tell. 

Phorkyas.  ’Tis  also  said,  from  out  the 
hollow  shadow-realm, 

Achilles,  passion-fir’d,  hath  join’d  himself  to 
thee. 

Whom  he  hath  lov’d  of  old,  ’gainst  all  resolves 
of  Fate. 

Helena.  As  phantom  I myself,  to  him  a 
phantom  bound  ; 

A dream  it  was — thus  e’en  the  very  words  de- 
clare. 

I faint,  and  to  myself  a phantom  I become. 

[She  sinks  into  the  arms  of  the  sani-ihorus. 

I4I 


Chorus.  Silence ! Silence ! 

False  seeing  one,  false  speaking  one,  thou  ! 
'rhrough  thy  horrible,  single-tooth’d  lips, 
Ghastly,  what  exhaleth 
From  such  terrible  loathsome  gulf! 

For  the  malignant  one,  kindliness  feigning, 
Rage  of  wolf  ’neath  the  sheep’s  woolly  fleece. 
Far  more  terrible  is  unto  me  than 
Jaws  of  the  hound  three-headed. 

An,\iousiy  watching  stand  we  here  : 

When?  How?  Whereof  such  malice 

Bursteth  the  tempest 

From  this  deep-lurking  brood  of  Hell  ? 

Now,  ’stead  of  friendly  words,  freighted 
with  comfort, 

I.ethe-bestowing,  gracious  and  mild, 

'I'hou  art  summoning  from  times  departed, 
Tlioughts  of  the  past  most  hateful. 
Overshadowing  not  alone 
All  sheen  gilding  the  present, 

Also  the  future’s 

Mildly  glimmering  light  of  hope. 

Silence  ! Silence  ! 

I'hat  fair  Helena’s  soul, 

Ready  e’en  now  to  take  flight. 

Still  may  keep,  yea  firmly  keep 
'I'he  form  of  all  forms,  the  loveliest, 

Ever  illumin’d  of  old  by  the  sun. 

[Helena  has  revived,  and  again  stands  in 
the  midst. 

Phorkyas.  Forth  emerge  from  fleeting 
cloudlets,  sun  resplendent  of  this  day. 

If  when  veil’d  thou  could’st  delight  us,  daz- 
zling now  thy  splendor  reigns. 

As  the  world  unfolds  before  thee,  thou  dost 
gaze  with  gracious  look. 

'I'hough  as  hideous  they  revile  me,  well  the 
beautiful  I know. 

Helena.  Giddy  from  the  void  I issue,  that 
in  fainting  round  me  clos’d. 

Rest  once  more  I fain  would  cherish,  for  sore- 
weary  are  my  limbs ; 

Yet  the  queen  it  still  beseemeth,  yea  all  mor- 
tals it  beseems, 

Self-controll’d,  to  man  their  spirits,  whatsoe’er 
of  ill  may  threat. 

Phorkyas.  In  thy  greatness  now  thou 
standest,  in  thy  beauty  ’fore  us  there. 
Tells  thy  glance  that  thou  commandest;  what 
command’st  thou?  speak  it  forth  ! 
Helena.  The  delay  your  strife  occasion’d, 
now  ])repare  ye  to  retrieve  : 

I laste,  a sacrifice  to  order,  as  the  king  com- 
manded me  1 


[ Phorkyas.  In  the  palace  all  is  ready  : cen- 
ser, tripod,  sharpen’d  axe. 

For  lustration  and  for  incense ; now  the 
destin’d  vi6lim  show  ! 

Helena.  That  to  me  the  king  disclos’d 
not. 

Phorkyas.  Spake  it  not  ? O doleful 
word  ! 

Helena.  What  the  sorrow  that  o’erpowers 
thee  ? 

Phorkyas.  Queen,  it  is  thyself  art  meant ! 

Helena.  I? 

Phorkyas.  And  these. 

Chorus.  Oh,  woe  and  wailing  ! 

Phorkyas.  Thou  wilt  perish  by  the  axe. 

Helena.  Dreadful — yet  surmis’d  ! Me 

wretched  ! 

Phorkyas.  Unavoidable  it  seems. 

Chorus.  And  to  us,  ah  what  will  happen  ? 

Phorkyas.  She  a noble  death  will  diej 

But  upon  the  lofty  rafter,  that  upholds  the 
gable-roof, 

As  in  fowling-time  the  thrushes,  ye  shall 
struggle  in  a row. 

[Helena  and  the  Chorus  stand  astounded 
and  terrified,  in  striking,  well-arranged 
groups. 

Phorkyas.  Poor  phantoms  ! — Stand  ye 
there  like  figures  petrified. 

In  deadly  fear  to  part  from  day,  which  is  not 
yours. 

Mortals,  who  phantoms  are  together  like  as  ye. 

Not  willingly  renounce  the  sun’s  resplendent 
beams ; 

Yet  from  their  doom  may  none  save  them  by 
force  or  prayer ; 

All  know  it,  yet  can  few  with  pleasure  welcome 
it ! 

Enough,  ye  all  are  lost.  So  to  the  work  forth- 
with 1 

\^She  claps  her  hands;  thereupon  appear  at 
the  door  masked  dwarfish  figures,  who  ex- 
ecute with  alacrity  the  orders  as  they  are 
delhered. 

Approach,  thou  swarthy,  round,  misshapen, 
goblin  train  ! 

Roll  yourselves  hither ! Mischief  work  ye 
here  at  will. 

The  altar,  golden-horn’d,  bear  ye,  and  give  it 
place ; 

And  let  the  gleaming  axe  o’erlay  the  silver 
rim  ! 

The  water-vessels  fill,  wherewith  to  wash 
away 

Of  black  polluting  gore,  the  horror-breathing 
stain  ; 


1 42 


The  costly  carpet  here  outspread  upon  the 
dust, 

That  so  the  victim  may  in  royal  fashion  kneel, 
And  wrapp’d  within  its  folds,  although  with 
sever’d  head. 

Sepulchr’d  straight  may  be,  with  honorable 
rites  ! 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  The  queen,  ab- 
sorb’d in  thought,  beside  us  stands  apart ; 
Blenching  the  maidens  droop,  like  meadow- 
grass  when  mown  ; 

On  me,  the  eldest,  seems  a sacred  duty  laid. 
With  thee  to  barter  words,  thou  form  of  primal 
eld. 

Experienc’d  art  thou,  wise,  well-minded seem’st 
to  us. 

Although  this  brainless  troop,  misjudging,  thee 
revil’d  : 

Tell  then,  if  thou  dost  know,  of  rescue  pos- 
sible. 

Phorkyas.  ’Tis  easy  said.  Alone  it  resteth 
with  the  queen 

Herself  to  save,  and  you  her  handmaidens 
with  her. 

Needful  is  prompt  resolve,  and  of  the  quickest 
too  ! 

Chorus.  Most  revered  among  the  Parcae, 
wisest  of  the  Sibyls  thou. 

Sheathed  hold  the  golden  scissors,  light  and  life 
to  us  proclaim  ! 

For  our  tender  limbs  already,  feel  we  dangling, 
unrejoicing. 

Swinging  to  and  fro,  that  rather  in  the  dance 
rejoic’d  of  yore. 

Resting  then  on  lover’s  breast. 

Helena.  These  tremblers  leave  ye ; sorrow 
feel  I,  naught  of  fear ; 

Yet  know’st  thou  rescue,  straight  be  it  with 
thanks  receiv’d  ! 

To  sage,  far-seeing  minds,  oft  the  impossible 
As  possible  doth  show.  Speak  on  and  tell  thy 
thought ! 

Chorus.  Speak  and  tell  us,  tell  us  quickly; 
how  may  we  escape  the  ghastly. 

Odious  nooses,  that,  with  menace,  like  to  orna- 
ments the  vilest. 

Round  our  necks  themselves  are  coiling  ? We, 
poor  vidlims,  feel  beforehand. 

Feel  the  stifling,  feel  the  choking,  if  of  all 
the  gods,  thou,  Rhea, 

Lofty  mother,  feel’st  no  pity  ! 

Phorkyas.  Have  ye  patience,  to  my  story’s 
course  protradled 

Still  to  hearken  ? Manifold  its  windings  are. 

Chorus.  Patience  enough  ! For  while  we 
hearken  still  we  live. 


Phorkyas.  The  man  at  home  who  tarries, 
noble  wealth  who  guards. 

And  knoweth  to  cement  his  dwelling’s  lofty 
walls. 

As  also  to  secure  his  roof  ’gainst  stress  of 
rain. 

With  him  shall  all  go  well,  through  the  long 
day  of  life  : 

But  lightly  who  o’ersteps,  with  rash  and  flying 
foot. 

His  threshold’s  sacred  bounds,  by  guilty  aim 
impell’d, 

Shall  find,  on  his  return,  the  ancient  place, 
indeed. 

But  alter’d  everything,  if  not  completely 
wreck’d. 

Helena.  Declare,  whereto  these  trite  and 
well-known  proverbs  here  ? 

Thou  should’st  relate;  stir  not  what  needs 
must  give  offence  ! 

Phorkyas.  True  history  it  is,  in  no  wise  a 
reproof. 

As  pirate  Menelaus  steer’d  from  bay  to  bay; 

Mainland  and  islands,  all  he  ravag’d  as  a foe. 

With  spoil  returning  home,  as  it  within  lies 
stor’d. 

He  before  Ilion’s  walls  hath  wasted  ten  long 
years. 

But  on  his  homeward  course  how  many  know 
I not ; 

Meanwhile  how  fares  it  here  where  stands  the 
lofty  house 

Of  Tyndarus  ? How  fares  it  with  the  region 
round  ? 

Helena.  Is  then  reproach  in  thee  so 
thoroughly  ingraft. 

That,  save  to  utter  blame,  thy  lips  thou  canst 
not  move? 

Phorkyas.  Thus  stood,  for  many  years, 
forlorn  the  sloping  ridge 

That  northwards  to  the  height  rises  in  Sparta’s 
rear. 

Behind  TaygetuS,  whence,  still  a merry  brook. 

Downward  Eurotas  rolls,  and  then,  along  our 
vale. 

Broad-flowing  among  reeds,  gives  nurture  to 
your  swans. 

There  in  the  mountain-vale,  behind,  a stalwart 
race 

Themselves  establish’d,  pressing  from  Cim- 
merian night. 

And  have  uprear’d  a fastness,  inaccessible. 

Whence  land  and  folk  around  they  harry,  as 
they  list. 

Helena.  This  could  they  then  achieve  ? 
Impossible  it  seems. 


143 


Phorkyas.  They  ample  time  have  had ; 
haply,  some  twenty  years. 

Helena.  Is  one  the  lord?  Are  they  a 
numerous  robber-horde  ? 

Phorkyas.  Not  robbers  are  they,  yet  is  one 
among  them  lord. 

Of  him  I speak  no  blame,  though  once  he 
sought  me  here ; 

He  might  have  taken  all,  yet  did  content  him- 
self 

With  some  few  things — which  he  free-gifts,  not 
tribute,  nam’d. 

Helena.  And  what  his  mien  ? 

Phorkyas.  Nowise  amiss ! He  pleases 
me. 

A cheerful  man  he  is,  courageous,  and  well- 
built. 

With  understanding  dower’d,  as  few  among 
the  Greeks. 

As  barbarous  we  brand  the  race,  but  yet,  me- 
thinks. 

So  savage  none  can  be  as  heroes,  not  a few. 

Who  man-devouring  pests  at  Ilion  show’d 
themselves. 

His  greatness  I respedl ; did  trust  myself  to 
him. 

His  fortress  ! That  should  ye  with  your  own 
eyes  behold  ! 

’Tis  something  different  from  clumsy  mason- 
work 

The  which  your  fathers  have  aloft,  at  random, 
pil’d, 

Cyclopean  like  the  Cyclops,  one  unwieldy 
stone 

On  stone  unwieldy  hurling ! There  quite 
otherwise. 

Upright  and  level,  all  is  fix’d  by  square  and 
rule. 

Gaze  on  it  from  without ; upward  it  strives 
toward  heaven. 

So  straight,  so  well  adjusted,  mirror-smooth 
like  steel ; 

To  clamber  there,  in  sooth,  your  very  thought 
slides  down. 

Within  are  ample  courts,  broad  spaces  girt 
around 

With  solid  mason-work,  of  divers  kinds  and 
use ; 

Pillars,  pilasters,  arches,  archlets,  balconies 

Are  there,  and  galleries,  for  peering  out  and 
in. 

And  scutcheons. 

Helena.  What  are  they? 

Phorkyas.  Ajax  upon  his  shield, 

A coiled  serpent  bare,  as  ye  yourselves  have 
seen ; 


The  seven  chiefs  at  Thebes  have  figur’d  em- 
blems borne. 

Each  one  upon  his  shield,  significant  and 
rich : 

There  moon  and  star  were  seen,  on  heaven’s 
nightly  field. 

There  goddess,  hero,  ladder,  weapons,  torches 
too. 

And  what  with  violence  still  threatens  goodly 
towns. 

Devices  of  like  sort  beareth  our  hero-band. 

In  color’d  splendor,  heir’d  from  primal  an- 
cestors ; 

There  lions  )’ou  behold,  eagles,  claw  too  and 
beak. 

Then  horns  of  buffalo,  wings,  roses,  peacock- 
tails. 

Bars  also,  gold  and  black  and  silver,  blue  and 
red. 

Such  symbols  in  their  halls  hang  pendent,  row 
on  row. 

In  halls  that  know  no  bound,  ample  as  is  the 
world ; 

There  might  ye  dance  ! 

Chorus.  O tell  us,  be  there  dancers  there? 

Phorkyas.  The  best ; a youthful  band, 
blooming  and  golden-hair’d  ; 

Of  youth  they  breathe ! Of  yore  so  only 
Paris  breath’d. 

What  time  he  to  the  queen  approach’d  too 
near. 

Helena.  Thou  fall’st 

Quite  from  thy  part ! To  me  declare  the  final 
word. 

Phorkyas.  That  speakest  thou ; in  earnest 
say  distindlly  yes  ! 

Then  with  that  fortress  thee  I’ll  straightway 
compass. 

Chorus.  Speak 

That  little  word,  and  save  thyself  and  us  with 
thee  ! 

Helena.  How?  Shall  I harbor  fear,  lest 
Menelaus  should 

So  ruthlessly  transgress  as  rage  to  wreak  on 
me  ? 

Phorkyas.  Hast  thou  forgotten  how  he, 
thy  Deiphobus, 

Thy  slaughter’d  Paris’  brother,  in  unheard-of 
guise. 

Hath  mangl’d,  he  who  strove  thy  stubborn 
widowhood 

To  bend,  and  gain’d  his  purpose  ! Nose  and 
ears  he  lopp’d. 

And  mutilated  sore ; ’twas  horror  to  behold  ! 

Helena.  That  did  he  unto  him ; for  my 
sake  it  was  done. 


144 


Phorkyas.  And  for  his  sake,  be  sure,  the 
like  he’ll  do  to  thee. 

Not  to  be  shar’d  is  beauty ; her  who  hath  pos- 
sess’d 

Entire,  destroyeth  rather,  cursing  partnership. 

\_Triimpets  in  the  distance;  the  Chorus 
shudders. 

As  the  shrill  trumpets’  blare  doth  ear  and 
entrails  seize. 

Rending  asunder,  so  her  talons  jealousy 

Fixes  in  that  man’s  breast,  who  never  can 
forget 

What  once  he  own’d,  now  lost,  by  him  pos- 
sess’d no  more. 

Chorus.  Hear’st  thou  not  the  horns  re- 
sounding? Seest  thou  not  the  gleam  of 
arms? 

Phorkyas.  Be  thou  welcome ! To  thee, 
lord  and  monarch  ! gladly  give  I reckon- 
ing. 

Chorus.  But  for  us  ? 

Phorkyas.  Ye  know  full  surely:  ’fore 
your  eyes  her  death  you  see,  j 

Your  own  death  mark  too  within  there ; no,  | 
for  you  there  is  no  help.  \Pause. 

Helena.  I have  the  course  devis’d,  which 
next  I will  pursue. 

An  adverse  Demon  art  thou,  that  full  well  I 
feel ; 

And  fear  thou  wilt  convert  even  the  good  to 
ill. 

Nathless  to  yonder  keep  I straight  will  follow 
thee. 

The  rest  I know : but  what  in  her  deep  breast 
the  queen 

As  mystery  conceals,  let  it  remain  to  all 

A secret  unreveal’d  ! Now,  ancient  one,  lead 
on  ! 

Chorus.  O how  gladly  go  we  hence. 

Urging  our  footsteps  : 

Death  in  our  rear  ; 

Once  more  before  us 
Rises  a fortress. 

With  unscalable  ramparts  ; 

Us  may  they  shelter  as  well. 

Even  as  Ilion’s  keep. 

Which  succumb’d  at  last 
Through  contemptible  craft  alone  ! 

\_Mists  diffuse  themselves,  veiling  the  back- 
ground; also  the  nearer  portiori  of  the 
scene. 

How  ! Sisters,  how  ! 

Sisters,  gaze  around  ! 

Was  it  not  cheerfulest  day? 

Mists  are  rising,  wreathing  aloft. 

From  Eurotas’  hallow’d  stream  ! 


Vanish’d  hath  the  beautiful. 

Sedge -becrown’d  marge  from  the  gaze; 
And  the  free  graceful,  swans. 

Proudly,  silently,  floating. 

Joyfully  together. 

See  I,  ah  ! no  more  ! 

Yet,  sisters,  yet ! 

Singing  hear  I them. 

Singing  harsh  tones  from  afar — 

Death  presaging,  so  mortals  say  ; 

Ah,  that  they  to  us  may  not, 

’Stead  of  rescue’s  promis’d  weal. 

Ruin  dire  betoken  at  last. 

Unto  us,  swanlike  maids. 

Fair,  white-throated  ones,  and  ah  ! 

To  our  queen  swan-gendered  ! 

Woe  to  us,  woe,  woe  ! 

All  itself  overshrouds. 

Wrapp’d  in  vapor  and  mist : 

Gaze  on  each  other  can  we  not  ! 

What  befalls  ? Do  we  walk  ? 

Hover  we  now. 

Tripping  with  light  steps  over  the  ground? 
Seest  thou  naught  ? Floats  not  us  before 
Hermes  perchance?  Gleams  not  his  golden 
wand. 

Bidding,  commanding  us  back  to  return. 
Back  to  yon  joyless  realm,  dusky  and  gray. 
With  intangible  phantoms  teeming, 

The  o’ercrowded,  yet  aye-empty  Hades? 

Deepens  all  at  once  the  darkness.  Rayless 
now  dissolves  the  vapor. 

Gray  and  murky,  brown  as  stone-work.  Walls 
ascend,  our  glances  meeting. 

Our  free  glances  meeting  sheer.  Court  is  it  ? 

deep  moat  ? or  cavern  ? 

’Tis  in  every  case  appalling  ! Sisters,  ah,  we 
are  imprison’d, 

’Prison’d  now  as  erst  we  were  ! 


Inner  Court  of  the  Castle, 

Surrounded  with  7-ich  fantastic  buildings  of 
the  middle  ages. 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  Foolish  and  over- 
swift, true  type  of  womankind, 
Dependent  on  the  moment,  sport  of  every  gust 
Of  bale  or  blessing  ! Yet  not  either  can  ye 
bear 

With  constant  courage.  One  still  fiercely  con- 
tradidls 

The  others,  crosswise  she  by  others  is  gainsaid  ; 


M5 


Only  in  joy  and  pain  ye,  with  the  self-same 
tone, 

Or  howl  or  laugh.  Be  still  and  hearken  what 
the  queen, 

High-soul’d,  may  here  decide  both  for  herself 
and  us. 

Helena.  Where  art  thou,  Pythonissa? 
Whatsoe’er  thy  name. 

From  out  the  gloomy  vaults  step  forth  of  this 
stern  keep ! 

Perchance,  art  gone  to  seek  this  wondrous 
hero-lord. 

To  herald  my  approach,  reception  kind  be- 
speaking ! 

So  take  my  thanks  and  quickly  lead  me  unto 
him  ! 

My  wanderings  I would  end,  repose  I wish 
alone. 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  Vainly  thou 
lookest,  queen,  round  thee  on  every  side; 

The  hateful  form  hath  vanish’d,  or  perchance 
remain’d 

In  yonder  mist,  from  forth  whose  bosom 
hitherward. 

We  came,  1 wist  not  how,  swiftly  without  a 
step; 

Perchance,  indeed,  in  doubt  this  labyrinth  she 
treads. 

Where  many  castles  strangely  mingle  into  one. 

Greeting  august  and  high  demanding  from  its 
lord. 

But  yonder  see  above,  where  move  in  busy 
throngs. 

In  corridors,  at  casements,  and  through  portals 
wide, 

A crowd  of  menials  passing,  swiftly  here  and 
there ; 

Distinguish’d  welcome  this  portends  of 
honor’d  guest. 

Chorus.  Expands  now  my  heart ! O, 
yonder  behold. 

How  modestly  downward,  with  lingering  step, 

A fair  youthful  throng  becomingly  move 

In  march  well-appointed ! Say,  by  whose 
command 

Now  appeareth  well-train’d,  and  so  promptly 
array’d, 

Of  blooming  boyhood,  the  glorious  race? 

What  admire  I the  most?  Is  it  their  elegant 
gait. 

Or  the  tresses  that  curl  round  their  dazzling 
white  brow. 

Or  the  twin-blooming  cheeks,  with  the  hue  of 
the  peach. 

And  shaded  like  it  with  soft  tender  down  ? 

Fain  would  I bite,  but  I shrink  back  in  fear ; 


For  in  similar  venture,  replete  was  the  mouth, 
I shudder  to  tell  it,  with  ashes ! 

But  the  most  beautiful 
Hither  are  wending; 

What  are  they  bearing? 

Steps  for  the  throne. 

Carpet  and  seat. 

Hangings  and  tent- 
Adorning  gear  ? 

Hover  the  folds  on  high. 

Cloud-garlands  forming 
Over  the  head  of  our  queen  ; 

Lo  ! now  invited. 

Climbs  she  the  stately  couch. 

Forward  advancing. 

Step  by  step,  treading. 

Range  yourselves  there  1 

Worthy,  oh  worthy,  thrice  worthy  of  her. 

Be  blessing  on  such  a reception  ! 

that  the  Chorus  has  indicated  takes 
place  by  degrees. 

( After  pages  and  squires  have  descended  in 
long  procession,  Faust  appears  above,  on 
the  steps,  in  knightly  court  costume  of  the 
middle  ages ; he  descends  slowly  and  with 
dignity. ) 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  (Attentively  ob- 
serving him.)  If  to  this  man  the  gods 
have  not,  as  is  their  wont. 

But  for  a season  lent  this  wonder-worthy  form. 
And  if  his  lofty  grace,  his  love-inspiring  mien. 
Be  not  their  transient  gift,  success  will  sure 
attend 

On  all  he  undertakes,  be  it  in  strife  with  men. 
Or  in  the  petty  war,  with  fairest  women  wag’d. 
To  many  others  him,  in  sooth,  I must  prefer. 
Others,  the  highly  priz’d,  on  whom  mine  eyes 
have  gaz’d. 

With  slow,  majestic  step,  by  reverence  with- 
held. 

The  prince  do  I behold.  Towards  him  turn, 
O queen  ! 

Faust.  (Advancing,  a man  in  fetters  at  his 
side.)  ’Stead  of  most  solemn  greeting, 
as  beseemeth, 

’Stead  of  most  reverent  welcome,  bring  I thee. 
In  chains  fast  manacled,  this  varlet,  who 
In  duty  failing,  wrested  mine  from  me. — 
Here  bend  thy  knee,  before  this  noblest  dame. 
To  make  forthwith  confession  of  thy  guilt ! — 
This  is,  exalted  potentate,  the  man. 

Of  rarest  vision,  from  the  lofty  tower 
Appointed  round  to  gaze,  the  expanse  of 
heaven. 

Keenly  to  overlook,  and  breadth  of  earth, 


146 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 


FAUST.  SECOND  PART. 


HELEN,  FAUST  AND  THE  TOWER-WAKDEK. 


M * 


Faust. 


Second  Part. 


If  here  or  yonder  aught  present  itself, 

From  the  encircling  hills,  across  the  vale. 
Towards  this  fortress  moving;  billowy  herds. 
Or  warlike  host  perchance ; those  we  defend. 
These  meet  in  fight.  To-day,  what  negligence! 
Thou  comest  hitlier,  he  proclaims  it  not ; 
August  reception  faileth,  honor  due 
To  guest  so  noble.  Forfeited  he  hath 
His  guilty  life,  and  in  the  blood  of  death. 
Well-merited,  should  lie;  but  thou  alone 
May’st  punish,  or  show  mercy,  at  thy  pleasure. 
Helena.  High  as  the  honor  thou  accordest 
me. 

As  judge,  as  potentate,  and  were  it  but. 

As  I suspedl,  to  try  me — so  will  I 
The  judge’s  foremost  duty  now  fulfil. 

To  give  the  accus’d  a hearing. — Therefore 
speak  I 

Lynceus,  the  tower-warder.  Let  me  kneel 
and  gaze  upon  her. 

Let  me  live  or  let  me  die : 

Pledg’d  to  serve,  with  truth  and  honor. 
The  god-given  dame,  am  I. 

Watching  for  the  morning,  gazing 
Eastward  for  its  rising,  lo  ! 

In  the  south,  my  vision  dazing. 

Rose  the  sun  a wondrous  show. 

Neither  earth  nor  heavenward  turning, 
Depth  nor  height  my  vision  drew ; 
Thitherward  I gaz’d,  still  yearning. 

Her,  the  peerless  one,  to  view. 

Eyesight  keen  to  me  is  granted. 

Like  to  lynx  on  highest  tree ; 

From  the  dream,  which  me  enchanted, 
Hard  I struggled  to  be  free. 

Could  I the  delusion  banish — 

Turret — tower — barr’d  gateway  see? 
Vapors  rise,  and  vapors  vanish  ; 

Forward  steps  this  deity  1 

Eye  and  heart  to  her  I tender  ! 

I inhale  her  gentle  light ; 

Blinding  all,  such  beauty’s  splendor 
Blinded  my  poor  senses  quite  ; 

I forgot  the  warder’s  duty, 

I forgot  the  entrusted  horn  ; 

Threaten  to  destroy  me — Beauty 
Tameth  anger,  tameth  scorn. 

Helena.  The  ill,  myself  occasion’d,  dare 
I not 

Chastise.  Ah,  woe  is  me  1 What  ruthless 
fate 

Pursues  me,  everywhere  the  breasts  of  men 


So  to  befool,  that  they  nor  spare  themselves 
Nor  aught  that  claimeth  reverence.  Plunder- 
ing now. 

Seducing,  fighting,  harrying  here  and  there, 
Gods,  heroes,  demigods,  yea  demons  too. 
Perplex’d  have  led  me,  wandering  to  and  fro; 
Singly,  the  world  I madden’d,  doubly,  more; 
Now  threefold,  fourfold,  bring  I woe  on 
woe  I 

This  guiltless  man  discharge,  let  him  go  free, 
No  shame  should  light  upon  the  god-befool’d. 
Faust.  Fill’d  with  amaze,  O queen,  I see 
at  once 

The  unerring  smiter,  here  the  smitten  one  ; 
The  bow  I see,  wherefrom  hath  sped  the  shaft 
This  man  that  wounded.  Shaft  doth  follow 
shaft. 

And  me  they  smite.  Them  crosswise  I per- 
ceive. 

Feather’d,  and  whirring  round  through  court 
and  keep. 

What  am  I now  ? Thou  makest,  all  at  once. 
My  trustiest,  rebellious ; insecure 
My  very  walls ; henceforth  my  hosts,  I fear. 
Will  serve  the  conquering  unconquer’d  queen. 
What  now  remaineth,  save  myself  to  yield. 
And  all  I fancied  mine,  to  thy  sole  sway? 
Freely  and  truly,  let  me  at  thy  feet, 
Acknowledge  thee  as  queen,  who,  coming 
here, 

Hath  won  forthwith  possession  and  a throne. 
Lynceus.  ( With  a chest,  followed  by  men 
bearing  other  chests. ) 

Back,  queen,  thou  seest  me  once  more  ! 

One  glance  the  rich  man  doth  implore ; 
Poor  as  a beggar  feeleth  he. 

Yet  rich  as  prince — beholding  thee. 

What  was  I erst — what  am  I now? 

What  can  I wish — what  aim  avow? 

What  boots  it  keenest  sight  to  own  ? 

Its  glance  reboundeth  from  thy  throne  ! 

We  from  the  east  still  onward  press’d, 

And  soon  o’ermaster’d  was  the  west ; 

A host  of  nations,  long  and  vast — 

The  foremost  knew  not  of  the  last ; 

Tlie  foremost  fell ; the  next  advance ; 

Ready  the  third  with  doughty  lance — 
Strengthen’d  was  each  a hundredfold  ; 
Thousands,  unmark’d,  lay  stark  and  cold. 

We  rush’d  along,  we  storm’d  apace, 
Lordship  we  won,  from  place  to  place ; 

And  where  to-day  I sway  achiev’d, 

Next  day  another  sack’d  and  reav’d. 


147 


Rapid  the  glance  we  took — one  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  fairest  maid, 

The  steer  one  seiz’d  of  surest  tread  ; 

The  horses  all  with  us  were  led. 

But  my  delight  was  everywhere 
To  peer  about  for  things  most  rare ; 

And  what  another  held  in  store, 

To  me  was  wither’d  grass,  no  more. 

On  treasure’s  track  I onward  sped. 

Only  by  my  keen  insight  led ; 

In  every  coffer  I could  see. 

Transparent  was  each  chest  to  me. 

Thus  heaps  of  gold  at  length  were  mine. 
And  jewel-stones,  with  lustrous  shine  ! — 
The  emerald’s  resplendent  green 
Alone  may  grace  thy  breast,  fair  queen. 

Let  pearl-drops  hang  ’twixt  lip  and  ear. 
The  spoil  of  ocean  ! rubies,  near 
Thy  dainty  cheeks,  their  radiance  lose. 
Quench’d  by  their  vermeil-tinctur’d  hues. 

The  greatest  treasures  thus  to-day. 

Before  thy  presence  here  I lay ; 

And  at  thy  feet,  in  homage  yield 
Harvest  of  many  a bloody  field. 

Though  I full  many  a chest  have  brought. 
Yet  more  I have,  with  treasure  fraught ; 

Let  me  attend  thy  path,  and  lo  ! 

Thy  treasure-vaults  shall  straight  o’erflow. 

For  scarce  dost  thou  the  throne  ascend. 
Already  bow,  already  bend. 

Reason,  and  wealth,  and  sovereign  power. 
Before  thy  beauty’s  peerless  dower. 

All  this  I firmly  held,  as  mine — 

Freely  relinquish’d,  now  ’tis  thine  ! 

Its  worth  I deem’d  both  vast  and  high — 

Its  nothingness  I now  descry. 

What  once  was  mine,  doth  from  me  pass. 
Scatter’d  like  mown  and  wither’d  grass. 
With  one  kind  look,  give  back  once  more. 
In  full,  the  worth  it  own’d  before ! 

Faust.  Hence  quickly  with  the  burden 
boldly  earn’d. 

Not  blam’.d  in  sooth,  but  yet  without  reward. 
Already  all  is  hers,  which  in  its  depths 
The  castle  hides  ; to  offer  special  gifts 
Is  bootless.  Hence ! Treasure  on  treasure 
heap. 

In  order  due ; of  splendor  yet  unseen 
Set  forth  the  exalted  pomp ; and  let  the 
vaults 


Glitter  like  heaven  new-born ; from  lifeless 
life 

A paradise  prepare  ; before  her  steps. 

With  eager  haste,  let  carpet,  rich  in  flowers, 
Unroll  on  flowery  carpet ! Let  her  tread 
Meet  dainty  footing,  and  the  brightest  sheen. 
Blinding  to  all  but  gods,  her  glance  arrest  ! 
Lynceus.  Slight  is  our  lord’s  behest ; ’tis 
play, 

A pleasant  pastime,  to  obey  : 

Not  wealth  alone,  the  blood  no  less 
O’ersways  this  beauty’s  fond  excess ! 

Tam’d  is  the  host,  and  falchions  keen. 

Now  blunt  and  lame,  have  lost  their  sheen  ; 
The  sun  beside  her  form  divine. 

Weary  and  cold,  forgets  to  shine; 

While  near  the  riches  of  her  face. 

Empty  is  all,  devoid  of  grace.  \^Exit. 

Helena.  (7h  Faust.)  With  thee  I fain 
would  speak,  therefore  ascend. 

And  seat  thee  at  my  side  ! The  vacant  plac:e 
Invites  its  owner,  and  secures  me  mine. 

Faust.  First,  kneeling,  let  my  true  alle- 
giance be 

.‘\ccepted,  noble  lady;  let  me  kiss 
'I'he  hand  that  now  uplifts  me  to  thy  side  ! 

Me  as  co-regent  strengthen  of  thy  realm. 

No  bound  that  knows ; and  for  thyself  ob- 
tain 

Adorer,  liegeman,  warder,  all  in  one! 

Helena.  Full  many  a wonder  do  I see  and 
hear ; 

Amazement  strikes  me,  much  I have  to  ask. 
Yet  fain  I am  to  know  wherefore  the  speech 
Of  yonder  man  sounds  strangely,  strange  and 
sweet  : 

Each  tone  appears  accordant  with  the  next. 
And  hath  a word  found  welcome  in  the  ear. 
Another  woos  caressingly  the  first. 

Faust.  If  thee  pur  people’s  utterance  thus 
delights, 

O then  be  sure,  their  song  will  ravish  thee. 
Appeasing  to  their  depths  both  ear  and  mind. 
Yet  were  it  best  this  language  to  essay ; 
Alternate  speech  invites  it,  calls  it  forth. 
Helena.  How  thus  to  speak  so  sweetly  I 
would  know. 

Faust.  ’Tis  easy,  from  the  heart  the  words 
must  flow ; 

And  when  with  fond  desire  the  bosom  yearns. 
We  look  around  and  ask — 

Helena.  Who  with  us  burns? 

Faust.  The  spirit  looks  nor  forward  nor 
behind. 

The  present  only — 

Helena.  There  our  bliss  we  find. 


148 


Faust.  Wealth  is  it,  pledge  and  fortune ; 
I demand, 

Who  granteth  confirmation  ? 

Helena.  This — my  hand. 

Chorus.  Who  would  now  upbraid  our 
princess 

Grants  she  to  this  castle’s  lord 
Friendliest  demeanor? 

For  confess,  together  are  we 
Captives  now,  as  oft  already, 

Since  the  tragical  overthrow 
Ilios’,  and  our  piteous  voyage. 
Labyrinthine,  with  sorrow  fraught. 

Women  wont  to  men’s  affedlion. 

Choosers  are  they  not  in  sooth. 

Rather  adepts  are  they  ; 

And  to  gold-ringleted  shepherds. 

Maybe  to  Fauns  darkly  bearded. 

As  to  them  the  occasion  comes, 

O’er  thy  delicate  limbs  must  they 
Yield  completely  an  equal  right. 

Near  and  nearer  sit  they  already. 

Each  on  other  reclining. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  knee  to  knee. 

Hand  in  hand,  rock  they  themselves 

Over  the  throne’s 

High  and  loftily-cushion’d  state  : 

For  no  scruple  hath  majesty, 

Secretest  raptures, 

’Fore  the  eyes  of  the  people. 

All  unblushingly  thus  to  display. 

Helena.  I feel  myself  so  distant,  yet  so 
near. 

And  all  too  gladly  say ; Here  am  I ! here  ! 
Faust.  I tremble  : scarcely  breathe,  words 
die  away : 

A dream  it  is,  vanish’d  have  place  and  day  ! 
Helena.  Outworn  I feel,  and  yet  as  life 
were  new. 

With  thee  entwin’d,  to  thee  the  unknown  one 
true. 

Faust.  Forbear  to  ponder  thy  strange 
destiny  ! 

Being  is  duty,  were  it  momently. 

Phorkyas.  ( Entering  itnpatiently.) 

On  love’s  primer  cast  your  eyes. 

Its  sweet  lessons  analyze. 

Fondly  sport  in  loverwise  ! 

Yet  thereto  time  fails,  I ween. 

Feel  ye  not  the  storm  o’erhanging? 

Hear  ye  not  the  trumpet  clanging  ! 

Ruin  nears,  with  threatening  mien. 

Menelaus  comes,  and  gleaming 
With  him  waves  of  people  streaming ; 


Arm  ye  for  the  conflidl  keen  ! 

Girt  by  victors,  conquest-heated. 

Like  Deiphobus,  maltreated. 

Forfeit  thou  must  pay,  O queen  ; 

These  light  ware,  shall  from  the  halter 
Dangle  ; ready  on  the  altar 
Sharpen’d  axe  for  thee  is  seen  ! 

Faust.  Bold  interruption,  she  annoyingly 
intrudes  ! 

Not  e’en  in  peril  brook  I senseless  violence. 

Ill  message  hideous  make  the  fairest  mes- 
senger ; 

Most  hideous  thou  who  dost  ill  tidings  gladly 
bring. 

They  shall  not  profit  thee ; ay,  shatter  thou 
the  air 

With  empty  breath.  In  sooth,  no  danger 
lurketh  here. 

And  danger’s  self  would  seem  but  idle  threat- 
ening. 

\_Signah.  Explosions  from  the  towers,  trum- 
pets and  cornets,  martial  music,  a powerful 
anny  fnarches  across  the  stage. 

Faust.  No,  straight  assembl’d  thou  shalt 
see 

Our  heroes’  close  united  band  ! 

For  woman’s  grace  none  wins  but  he 
Who  knows  to  shield  with  forceful  hand. 
\_To  the  leaders,  who  separate  thc7nselves  fro7n 
their  colu77i7is  and  step  fo7-ward. 

With  bridl’d  rage  and  silent  power. 

Which  vidlory  must  crown  at  length. 

Ye  of  the  north,  the  youthful  flower. 

Ye  of  the  east,  the  blooming  strength  ! 

Steel-clad,  with  sunbeams  round  them  break- 

ing, 

Empires  they  shatter  with  their  spear; 

They  march — beneath  them  earth  is  shak- 

ing . 

They  pass — it  thunders  in  their  rear. 

At  Pylos  from  our  barques  we  landed — 

'I’he  ancient  Nestor  was  no  more ; 

In  vain  their  troops  the  kinglings  banded, 
’Gainst  our  free  host,  on  Hellas’  shore. 

Drive  from  these  walls,  my  voice  obeying. 
King  Menelaus  back  to  sea  ; 

There  let  him,  sacking  and  waylaying. 
Fulfil  his  will  and  destiny. 

I hail  you  dukes,  for  so  ordaineth 
Sparta’s  fair  queen  : before  her  lay 
Mountain  and  valley  ; while  she  reigneth. 
Ye  too  shall  profit  by  her  sway. 


149 


Guard,  German,  wall  and  fence  extending, 
Corinthns’  bay,  whate’er  assails; 

Goths,  I confide  to  your  defending, 

Achaia,  with  its  hundred  vales; 

March,  Franks,  your  course  to  Elis  steer- 
ing. 

Messene  be  the  Saxon’s  share; 

Normans,  the  sea  from  pirates  clearing. 

Of  Argolis  the  strength  repair. 

Then  shall  each  one,  at  home  abiding, 
Prowess  and  strength  abroad  make  known  ; 
Yet  Sparta  shall,  o’er  all  presiding, 

Be  still  our  queen’s  ancestral  throne. 

Rejoicing  in  their  lands,  each  nation 
She  sees,  with  every  blessing  crown’d  ; 
Justice  and  light  and  confirmation. 

Seek  at  her  feet,  with  trust  profound. 
[Faust  descends,  the  princes  close  a circle 
round  him,  in  order  better  to  hear  his  in- 
struflions  and  com?nands. 

Chorus.  Who  the  fairest  fain  would  pos- 
sess. 

Foremost,  let  him  for  weapons 
Stoutly  and  wi.sely  look  all  around  ! 

Fond  words  for  him  may  have  won 
Wliat  on  earth  is  the  highest : 


Yet  in  peace  possesseth  he  not : 

Fawners  slyly  entice  her  from  him. 

Spoilers  daringly  snatch  her  from  Iiim  ; 

This  to  guard  against  be  he  prepar’d  ! 

I for  this  commend  our  prince, 

Prize  him  higher  than  others, 

Who,  brave  and  prudent,  himself  hatli 
leagu’d. 

So  that  the  stahvart  obedient  stand, 

To  his  beck  still  attentive; 

Loyally  they  his  bests  fulfil. 

To  his  own  profit,  one  and  all, 

Having  his  guerdon  in  his  lord’s  thanks. 
And  for  the  loftiest  glory  of  both. 

For  who  shall  snatch  her  away 
From  her  potent  possessor? 

She  is  his,  to  him  be  she  granted. 

Doubly  granted  by  us,  whom  he 
Within,  e’en  like  her,  with  impregnable 
ramparts. 

Without,  by  mightiest  host,  surrounds. 

Faust.  Our  gifts  to  these  are  great  and 
glorious : 

To  every  one  a goodly  land. 

Fertile  and  broad.  March  on  vidlorious ! 

; Here  in  the  midst  take  we  our  stand. 


Girt  round  by  waves  in  sunlight  dancing, 

Half  island,  thee — whose  hill-chains  blend 
With  Europe’s  mountains,  widely  branching — 
Will  they  in  rivalry  defend. 

Bless’d  be  this  land,  all  lands  transcending. 

To  every  race,  for  evermore. 

Which  sees  my  queen  the  throne  ascending, 

As  erst  her  birth  it  hail’d  of  yore. 

When,  ’mid  Eurotas’  reedy  whisper. 

Forth  from  the  shell  she  burst  to  light. 

Her  mighty  mother,  brothers,  sister. 

Were  blinded  by  the  dazzling  sight. 

This  land,  her  choicest  bloom  that  layeth 
Before  thee,  waiting  thy  behest — 

Though  the  wide  earth  thy  sceptre  swayeth. 
Oh  love  thy  fatherland  the  best ! 

What  though  the  sun’s  keen  arrow  coldly 
playeth. 

Upon  the  mountain  summits,  jagg’d  and  bare. 
Yet  where  the  rock  the  verdure  overlayeth. 
The  wild  goat  nibbling,  crops  its  scanty  fare  ; 

The  spring  leaps  forth,  united  plunge  the 
fountains. 

And  meadow,  gorge,  and  valley,  all  are  green ; 
On  broken  pastures  of  a hundred  mountains, 
Spread  far  and  wide,  the  woolly  herds  are  seen  ; 

With  measur’d  tread,  cautious,  in  line  divided. 
By  the  steep  edge,  the  horned  cattle  wend  ; 

Yet  for  them  all  a shelter  is  provided. 

O’er  many  a cave  the  vaulted  rock  doth  bend  ! 

Pan  shields  them  there,  and  many  a nymph 
appeareth, 

In  moist  and  bushy  caverns  dwelling  free  ; 

And  yearning  after  higher  spheres,  upreareth 
Its  leafy  branches  tree  close-press’ d to  tree — 

Primeval  woods  ! The  giant  oak  there  stand- 
ing, 

Links  bough  to  bough,  a stubborn,  tortuous, 
maze ; 

The  gentle  maple,  with  sweet  juice  expanding. 
Shoots  clear  aloft  and  with  its  burden  plays — 

And  motherly  for  child  and  lambkin  streameth, 
’Mid  silent  shades,  warm  milk  prepar’d  for 
them ; 

Fruit  close  at  hand,  the  plain’s  ripe  nurture, 
gleameth, 

And  honey  droppeth  from  the  hollow  stem. 

Pleasure  is  here  a birthright ; vying 
In  gladness  cheek  and  lip  are  found. 

Each  in  his  station  is  undying, 

Content  and  blooming  health  abound. 


I And  thus  to  all  his  father’s  strength  unfoldeth 
The  gentle  child,  environ’d  by  sweet  day. 
Amaz’d  we  stand ; each  asks,  as  he  beholdeth  ; 
If  gods  they  be,  or  men  ? so  fair  are  they. 

So  when  the  part  of  hind  Apollo  playeth. 

Like  him  the  fairest  shepherd-youth  appears ; 
For  there  where  Nature  in  clear  circle  swayeth. 
Harmoniously  are  link’d  her  several  spheres. 

\_Tah'ng  his  seat  beside  Helena. 

Thus  happy  Fate  hath  me,  hath  thee  attended  ! 
Behind  us  henceforth  let  the  past  be  thrown  ! 
From  God  supreme,  oh  feel  thyself  descended  : 
Thou  to  the  primal  world  belong’st  alone. 

Thee  shall  no  firm-built  fortress  capture ; 
Strong  in  eternal  youth,  expands 
For  us  a sojourn,  fraught  with  rapture, 
Arcadia,  near  to  Sparta’s  lands. 

Allur’d  to  this  bless’d  region,  hither 
Hast  fled  to  brightest  destiny  : 

Thrones  change  to  bowers  that  never  wither ; 
Arcadian  be  our  bliss  and  free  ! 

[ The  scene  is  entirely  changed.  Close  arbors 
recline  against  a series  of  rocky  caverns. 
A shady  grove  extends  to  the  base  of  the 
encirclmg  rocks.  Faust  and  Helena  are 
7iot  seen.  The  Chorus  lies  sleepmg,  scat- 
tered here  and  there. 

Phorkyas.  How  long  these  maids  have 
slept,  in  sooth  I cannot  tell  ■, 

Or  whether  they  have  dream’d  what  I before 
mine  eyes 

Saw  bright  and  clear,  to  me  is  equally  un- 
known. 

So  wake  I them.  Amaz’d  the  younger  folk 
shall  be. 

Ye  too,  ye  bearded  ones,  who  sit  below  and 
wait. 

Hoping  to  see  at  length  these  miracles  re- 
solv’d. 

Arise  ! Arise  ! And  shake  quickly  your  crisped 
locks ! 

Shake  slumber  from  your  eyes  ! Blink  not, 
and  list  to  me  ! 

Chorus.  Only  speak,  relate,  and  tell  us, 
what  of  wonderful  hath  chanc’d  ! 

We  more  willingly  shall  hearken  that  which 
we  cannot  believe  ; 

For  we  are  aweary,  weary,  gazing  on  these 
rocks  around. 

Phorkyas.  Children,  how,  already  weary, 
though  you  scarce  have  rubb’d  your  eyes? 
Hearken  then  ! Within  these  caverns,  in  these 
grottoes,  in  these  bowers. 


Shield  and  shelter  have  been  given,  as  to  lover- 
twain  idyllic. 

To  our  lord  and  to  our  lady — 

Chorus.  How,  within  there? 

Phorky.as.  Yea,  secluded 

From  the  world  ; and  me,  me  only,  they  to 
secret  service  call’d. 

Highly  honor’d  stood  I near  them,  yet,  as 
one  in  trust  beseemeth. 

Round  I gaz’d  on  other  objedls,  turning 
hither,  turning  thither. 

Sought  for  roots,  for  barks  and  mosses,  with 
their  ])roperties  acquainted ; 

And  they  thus  remain’d  alone. 

Chorus.  Thou  would’st  make  believe  that 
yonder,  world-wide  spaces  lie  within. 
Wood  and  meadow,  lake  and  brooklet ; what 
strange  fable  spinnest  thou  ! 

Phorkyas.  Yea,  in  sooth,  ye  inexperienc’d, 
there  lie  regions  undiscover’d  : 

Hall  on  hall,  and  court  on  court ; in  my 
musings  these  I track. 

Suddenly  a peal  of  laughter  echoes  through 
the  cavern’d  spaces; 

In  I gaze,  a boy  is  springing  from  the  bosom 
of  the  woman 

To  the  man,  from  sire  to  mother;  the  caress- 
ing and  the  fondling. 

All  love’s  foolish  playfulnesses,  mirthful  cry 
and  shout  of  rapture. 

Alternating,  deafen  me. 

Naked,  without  wings,  a genius,  like  a faun, 
with  nothing  bestial. 

On  the  solid  ground  he  springeth ; but  the 
ground,  with  counteradlion. 

Up  to  ether  sends  him  flying;  with  the  second, 
third  rebounding 
Touches  he  the  vaulted  roof. 

Anxiously  the  mother  calleth  : Spring  amain, 
and  at  thy  pleasure  : 

But  beware,  think  not  of  flying,  unto  thee  is 
flight  denied. 

And  so  warns  the  faithful  father : In  the  earth 
the  force  elastic 

Lies,  aloft  that  sends  thee  bounding  ; let  thy 
toe  but  touch  the  surface. 

Like  the  son  of  earth,  Antaeus,  straightway  is 
thy  strength  renew’d. 

And  so  o’er  these  rock\-  masses,  on  from  dizzy 
ledge  to  ledge, 

I.eaps  he  ever,  hither,  thither,  springing  like  a 
stricken  ball. 

But  in  cleft  of  rugged  cavern  suddenly  from 
sight  he  vanish’d  ; 

And  now  lost  to  us  he  seemeth,  mother  waileth, 
sire  consoleth. 


Anxiously  I shrug  my  shoulders.  But  again, 
behold,  what  vision  ! 

Lie  there  treasures  hidden  yonder?  Raiment 
broider’d  o’er  with  flowers 

He  becomingly  hath  donn’d  ; 

Tassels  from  his  arms  are  waving,  ribbons 
flutter  on  his  bosom. 

In  his  hand  the  lyre  all-golden,  wholly  like  a 
tiny  Phoebus, 

Boldly  to  the  edge  he  steppeth,  to  the  preci- 
pice ; we  wonder. 

And  the  parents,  full  of  rapture,  cast  them  on 
each  other’s  heart ; 

For  around  his  brow  what  splendor ! Who 
can  tell  what  there  is  shining? 

Gold-wmrk  is  it,  or  the  flaming  of  surpassing 
spirit-power  ? 

d’hus  he  moveth,  wuth  such  gesture,  e’en  as  boy 
himself  announcing 

Future  master  of  all  beauty,  through  whose 
limbs,  whose  every  member. 

Flow’  the  melodies  eternal : and  so  shall  ye 
hearken  to  him. 

And  so  shall  ye  gaze  upon  him,  to  your  special 
wonderment. 

Chorus.  This  call’st  thou  marvellous. 
Daughter  of  Creta? 

Unto  the  bard’s  pregnant  w’ord 
Hast  thou  perchance  never  listen’d  ? 

Hast  thou  not  heard  of  Ionia’s, 

Ne’er  been  instrudled  in  Hellas’ 

Legends,  from  ages  ])rimeval. 

Godlike,  heroical  treasure? 

All,  that  still  happeneth 
Now  in  the  present. 

Sorrowful  echo  ’tis. 

Of  days  ancestral,  more  noble ; 

Equals  not  in  sooth  thy  story 
That  which  beautiful  fidlion. 

Than  truth  more  w'orthy  of  credence, 
Chanetd  hath  of  Maia’s  offspring  ! 

This  so  shapely  and  potent,  yet 
Scarcely-born  delicate  nursling. 

Straight  have  his  gossiping  nurses 
Folded  in  purest  swaddling  fleece. 
Fasten’d  in  costly  swathings. 

With  their  irrational  notions. 

Potent  and  shapely,  ne’ertheless. 

Draw's  the  rogue  his  flexible  limbs. 

Body  firm  yet  elastic. 

Craftily  forth  ; the  jxirple  shell. 

Him  so  grievously  binding. 

Leaving  quietly  in  its  place  ; 

As  the  ijerfedled  butterfly. 

From  the  rigid  chrysalid. 


152 


Pinion  unfolding,  rapidly  glides, 

Boldly  and  wantonly  sailing  through 
Sun-impregnated  ether. 

So  he,  too,  the  most  dextrous. 

That  to  robbers  and  scoundrels. 

Yea,  and  to  all  profit-seekers. 

He  a favoring  god  might  be. 

This  he  straightway  made  manifest. 

Using  arts  the  most  cunning. 

Swift  from  the  ruler  of  ocean  he 
Steals  the  trident,  yea,  e’en  from  Ares 
Steals  the  sword  from  the  scabbard ; 
Arrow  and  bow  from  Phoebus  too. 

Also  his  tongs  from  Hephgestos : 

Even  Zeus’,  the  father’s,  bolt. 

Him  had  fire  not  scar’d,  he  had  ta’en. 
Eros  also  worsted  he. 

In  limb-grappling,  wrestling  match  ; 

Stole  from  Cypria  as  she  caress’d  him. 
From  her  bosom,  the  girdle. 

[An  exquisite,  purely  melodious  lyre-music 
resounds  frotn  the  cat)e.  All  become  atten- 
tive, and  appear  soon  to  be  inwardly 
moved ; henceforth,  to  the  pause  indicated, 
there  is  a full  musical  accompatiiment. 
Phorkyas.  Hark  those  notes  so  sweetly 
sounding ; 

Cast  aside  your  fabl’d  lore  : 

Gods,  in  olden  time  abounding, — 

Let  them  go  ! their  day  is  o’er. 

None  will  comprehend  your  singing  ; 
Nobler  theme  the  age  requires  : 

From  the  heart  must  flow,  upspringing. 
What  to  touch  the  heart  aspires. 

retires  behind  the  rock. 
Chorus.  To  these  tones,  so  sweetly  flow- 

Dire  one  ! dost  incline  thine  ears. 

They  in  us,  new  health  bestowing. 

Waken  now  the  joy  of  tears. 

Vanish  may  the  sun’s  clear  shining. 

In  our  soul  if  day  arise. 

In  our  heart  we,  unrepining. 

Find  what  the  whole  world  denies. 

Helena,  Faust,  Euphorion  in  the  costume 
indicated  above. 

Euphorion.  Songs  of  childhood  hear  ye 
ringing. 

Your  own  mirth  it  seems ; on  me 
Gazing,  thus  in  measure  springing, 

Leap  your  parent-hearts  with  glee. 


Helena.  Love,  terrestrial  bliss  to  capture, 
Two  in  noble  union  mates ; 

But  to  wake  celestial  rapture. 

He  a precious  three  creates. 

Faust.  All  hath  been  achiev’d.  Forever 
I am  thine,  and  mine  thou  art : 

Blent  our  beings  are — oh,  never 
May  our  present  joy  depart ! 

Chorus.  Many  a year  of  purest  pleasure. 
In  the  mild  light  of  their  boy. 

Crowns  this  pair  in  richest  measure. 

Me  their  union  thrills  with  joy  ! 
Euphorion.  Now  let  me  gambol, 

Joyfully  springing  ! 

Upward  to  hasten 
Through  ether  winging. 

This  wakes  my  yearning. 

This  prompts  me  now  ! 

Faust.  Gently  ! son,  gently  ! 

Be  not  so  daring  ! 

Lest  ruin  seize  thee 
Past  all  repairing. 

And  our  own  darling 
Whelm  us  in  woe  ! 

Euphorion.  From  earth  my  spirit 
Still  upward  presses ; 

Let  go  my  hands  now. 

Let  go  my  tresses. 

Let  go  my  garments. 

Mine  every  one  ! 

Helena.  To  whom,  bethink  thee. 

Now  thou  pertainest ! 

Think  how  it  grieves  us 
When  thou  disdainest 
Mine,  thine,  and  his, — the  all 
That  hath  been  won. 

Chorus.  Soon  shall,  I fear  me. 

The  bond  be  undone  ! 

Helena  and  Faust.  Curb  for  thy  parents’ 
sake. 

To  us  returning. 

Curb  thy  importunate 
Passionate  yearning ! 

Make  thou  the  rural  plain 
Tranquil  and  bright. 

Euphorion.  But  to  content  you 
Stay  I my  flight. 

[ Winding  amotig  the  Chorus  and  drawing 
them  forth  to  dance. 

Round  this  gay  troop  I flee 
With  impulse  light. 

Say  is  the  melody. 

Say  is  the  movement  right  ? 

Helena.  Yea,  ’tis  well  done;  advance, 
Lead  to  the  graceful  dance 
These  maidens  coy ! 


153 


Faust.  Could  I the  end  but  see ! 

Me  this  mad  revelry 
Fills  with  annoy. 

Euphorion  and  the  Chorus.  (Dancing  and 
singing,  they  7nove  about  in  interweaving 
lines.)  Moving  thine  arms  so  fair 
With  graceful  motion, 

Tossing  thy  curling  hair 
In  bright  commotion ; 

When  thou  with  foot  so  light 
Over  the  earth  doth  skim, 

Thither  and  back  in  flight. 

Moving  each  graceful  limb ; 

Thou  hast  attain’d  thy  goal. 

Beautiful  child. 

All  hearts  thou  hast  beguil’d. 

Won  every  soul.  \^Pause. 

Euphorion.  Gracefully  sporting. 
Light-footed  roes, 

New  frolic  courting. 

Scorn  ye  repose : 

I am  the  hunter. 

Ye  are  the  game. 

Chorus.  Us  wilt  thou  capture. 

Urge  not  thy  pace  ; 

For  it  were  rapture 
Thee  to  embrace. 

Beautiful  creature. 

This  our  sole  aim  ! 

Euphorion.  Through  trees  and  heather, 
Bound  all  together, 

O’er  stock  and  stone  ! 

Whate’er  is  lightly  won. 

That  I disdain  ; 

What  I by  force  obtain. 

Prize  I alone. 

Helena  and  Faust.  What  vagaries,  sense 
confounding  ! 

Naught  of  measure  to  be  hop’d  for  ! 

Like  the  blare  of  trumpet  sounding. 

Over  vale  and  forest  ringing. 

What  a riot ! What  a cry  ! 

Chorus.  ( Entetdng  quickly  one  by  one.) 

Us  he  pass’d  with  glance  scorn-laden  ; 
Hastily  still  onward  springing, 

Bearing  now  the  wildest  maiden 
Of  our  troop,  he  draweth  nigh. 
Euphorion.  ( Bearing  a young  maiden.) 

I this  wilful  maid  and  coy 
Carry  to  enforc’d  caress; 

For  my  pleasure,  for  my  joy 
Her  resisting  bosom  press. 

Kiss  her  rebel  lips,  that  so 
She  my  power  and  will  may  know. 
Maiden.  Loose  me  ! in  this  frame  residing. 
Burns  a spirit’s  strength  and  might ; 


Strong  as  thine,  our  will  presiding 
Swerveth  not  with  purpose  light. 
Thinkest,  on  thy  strength  relying. 

That  thou  hast  me  in  a strait  ? 

Hold  me,  fool  ! thy  strength  defying. 

For  my  sport.  I’ll  scorch  thee  yet ! 

\_She  fla7nes  tip  and  flashes  into  the  air. 
Follow  where  light  breezes  wander. 
Follow  to  rude  caverns  yonder. 

Strive  thy  vanish’d  prey  to  net ! 
Euphorion.  ( Shaking  oflp  the  last  fla7nes.) 
Rocks  all  around  I see. 

Thickets  and  woods  among  ! 

Why  should  they  prison  me  ? 

Still  am  I fresh  and  young. 

Tempests,  they  loudly  roar. 

Billows,  they  lash  the  shore  ; 

Both  far  away  I hear  ; 

Would  I were  near  ! 

\_He  sp7-ings  higher  up  the  rock. 
Helena,  Faust  a7id  Chorus. 

Would’st  thou  chamois-like  aspire? 

Us  thy  threaten’d  fall  dismays  ! 
Euphorion.  Higher  must  I climb,  yet 
higher. 

Wider  still  must  be  my  gaze. 

Know  I now,  where  I stand  : 

’Midst  of  the  sea-girt  land, 

’Midst  of  great  Pelops’  reign, 

Kin  both  to  earth  and  main. 

Chorus.  Canst  not  near  copse  and  wold 
Tarry,  then  yonder. 

Ripe  figs  and  apple-gold 
Seeking,  we’ll  wander; 

Grapes  too  shall  woo  our  hand. 

Grapes  from  the  mantling  vine. 

Ah,  let  this  dearest  land. 

Dear  one,  be  thine  ! 

Euphorion.  Dream  ye  of  peaceful  day  ? 
Dream  on,  while  dream  ye  may  ! 

War  ! is  the  signal  cry. 

Hark  ! cries  of  vidlory  ! 

Chorus.  War  who  desireth 
While  peace  doth  reign. 

To  joy  aspireth 
Henceforth  in  vain. 

Euphorion.  All  whom  this  land  hath 
bred ; 

Through  peril  onward  led. 

Free,  of  undaunted  mood. 

Still  lavish  of  their  blood. 

With  soul  untaught  to  yield. 

Rending  each  chain  ! 

To  such  the  bloody  field. 

Brings  glorious  gain. 


154 


Second  Part. 


Chorus.  High  he  soars, — mark,  upward 
gazing,— 

And  to  us  not  small  doth  seem  : 
Vi6lor-like,  in  harness  blazing, 

As  of  steel  and  brass  the  gleam  ! 
Euphorion.  Not  on  moat  or  wall  relying. 
On  himself  let  each  one  rest ! 

Firmest  stronghold,  all  defying. 

Ever  is  man’s  iron  breast ! 

Dwell  for  aye.  unconquer’d  would  ye? 
Arm,  by  no  vain  dreams  beguil’d  ! 
Amazons  your  women  should  be. 

And  a hero  every  child  ! 

Chorus.  O hallow’d  Poesie, 

Heavenward  still  soareth  she  ! 

Shine  on,  thou  brightest  star. 

Farther  and  still  more  far  ! 

Yet  us  she  still  doth  cheer ; 

Ever  her  voice  to  hear. 

Joyful  we  are. 

Euphorion.  Child  no  more ; a stripling 
bearing 

Arms  appears,  with  valor  fraught : 

Leagu’d  with  the  strong,  the  free,  the 
daring. 

In  soul  already  who  hath  wrought. 

Hence,  away ! 

No  delay ! 

There  where  glory  may  be  sought. 
Helena  and  Faust.  Scarcely  summon’d 
to  life’s  gladness. 

Scarcely  given  to  day’s  bright  gleam. 
Downward  now  to  pain  and  sadness 
Would’st  thou  rush,  from  heights  supreme  ! 
Are  then  we 
Naught  to  thee? 

Is  our  gracious  bond  a dream  ? 
Euphorion.  Hark ! What  thunders  sea- 
ward rattle. 

Echoing  from  vale  to  vale  ! 

’Mid  dust  and  foam,  in  shock  of  battle. 
Throng  on  throng,  to  grief  and  bale  ! 

And  the  command 
Is,  firm  to  stand  ; 

Death  to  face,  nor  ever  quail. 

Helena,  Faust,  and  Chorus.  Oh  what 
horror  ! Hast  thou  told  it ! 

Is  then  death  for  thee  decreed  ? 
Euphorion.  From  afar  shall  I behold  it  ? 

No  ! I’ll  share  the  care  and  need  ! 
Helena,  Faust,  and  Chorus.  Rashness 
to  peril  brings. 

And  deadly  fate ! 

Euphorion.  Yet — see  a pair  of  wings 
Unfoldeth  straight ! 


Thither — I must,  I must — 

Grudge  not  my  flight ! 

\_He  casts  himself  into  the  air ; his  garments 
support  him  for  a moment ; his  head  flames, 
a trail  of  light  follows  him. 

Chorus.  Icarus ! Icarus ! 

Oh  woeful  sight ! 

[y^  beaiitifiil  youth  falls  at  the  parents'  feet, 
we  imagine  that  in  the  dead  we  recognize 
a well-known  form  ; yet  suddenly  the  cor- 
poreal part  vanishes ; the  aureole  rises  like 
a comet  to  heaven  ; dress,  mantle  and  lyre 
remain  lying  on  the  ground. 

Helena  and  Faust.  Follows  on  joy  new- 
born 

Anguishful  moan  ! 

Euphorion’s  Voice.  (From  the  depths.) 
Leave  me  in  realms  forlorn. 

Mother,  not  all  alone  ! \Pausc. 

Chorus.  (Dirge.)  Not  alone — for  hope 
we  cherish. 

Where  thou  bidest  thee  to  know  ! 

Ah,  from  daylight  though  thou  perisli, 
Ne’er  a heart  will  let  thee  go  ! 

Scarce  we  venture  to  bewail  thee. 
Envying  we  sing  thy  fate  : 

Did  sunshine  cheer,  or  storm  assail  thee. 
Song  and  heart  were  fair  and  great. 

Earthly  fortune  was  thy  dower. 

Lofty  lineage,  ample  might. 

Ah,  too  early  lost,  thy  flower 
Wither’d  by  untimely  blight! 

Glance  was  thine  the  world  discerning. 
Sympathy  with  every  wrong. 

Woman’s  love  for  thee  still  yearning. 

And  thine  own  enchanting  song. 

Yet  the  beaten  path  forsaking. 

Thou  didst  run  into  the  snare  : 

So  with  law  and  usage  breaking. 

On  thy  wilful  course  didst  fare; 

Yet  at  last  high  thought  has  given 
To  thy  noble  courage  weight. 

For  the  loftiest  thou  hast  striven — 

It  to  win  was  not  thy  fate. 

Who  does  win  it?  Unreplying, 

Destiny  the  question  hears. 

When  the  bleeding  people  lying. 

Dumb  with  grief,  no  cry  uprears  I — 

Now  new  songs  chant  forth,  in  sorrow 
Deeply  bow’d  lament  no  more; 

Them  the  earth  brings  forth  to-morrow, 
As  she  brought  them  forth  of  yore  ! 

[^Full pause.  The  music  ceases. 


155 


Helena.  (7^  Faust.)  An  ancient  word, 
alas,  approves  itself  in  me : 

That  joy  and  beauty  ne’er  enduringly  are 
link’d! 

Rent  is  the  bond  of  life,  with  it  the  bond  of 
love ; 

Lamenting  both,  I say  a sorrowful  farewell. 
And  throw  myself  once  more,  once  only,  in 
thine  arms. — 

Persephoneia,  take  the  boy,  take  also  me  ! 

embraces  Faust,  her  corporeal  part 
vanishes,  her  garment  and  veil  remain  in 
his  arms. 

Phorkyas.  Hold  fast  what  doth  of  all 
alone  remain  to  thee. 

The  garment,  loose  it  not ! Already  hale 
The  demons  at  its  skirts,  and  it  would  fain 
Drag  to  the  nether  regions.  Hold  it  fast  1 
The  goddess  is  it  not,  whom  thou  hast  lost. 
Yet  godlike  ’tis.  Avail  thee  of  the  high 
Inestimable  gift,  and  upward  soar  ; 

Thee  o’er  all  common  things  ’twill  swiftly  bear 
Through  ether,  long  as  there  thou  canst  abide. 
We  meet  again,  far,  far  away  from  here. 

[Helena’s  garments  dissolve  into  clouds, 
they  envelop  Faust,  raise  him  aloft,  and 
pass  with  him  from  the  scene. 

Phorkyas.  ( Takes  Euphorion’s  dress, 
mantle  and  lyre  from  the  earth,  steps  into 
the  proscenium  ; holding  up  the  spoils,  she 
says :)  A happy  find  hath  nre  bestead. 

The  flame  in  sooth  is  vanished. 

Yet  for  the  world  no  grief  I know ; 

Enough  remaineth  bards  to  consecrate. 

Envy  to  scatter  in  their  guild  and  hate  ; 

And  am  I powerless  genius  to  bestow. 

Its  vesture  I can  lend,  at  any  rate. 

\_She  sits  down  in  the  proscenium,  at  the  foot 
of  a pillar. 

Penthalis.  Now  hasten,  girls  ! At  length 
we  are  from  magic  free. 

From  the  soul-swaying  spell  of  the  Thessalian 
hag ; 

Free  also  from  the  blare  confus’d  of  jangling 
tones. 

The  ear  perplexing,  and  still  worse  the  inner 
sense. 

Away  to  Hades  ! Thither  hath  in  haste  the 
queen. 

With  earnest  step,  descended.  Now,  ye  faith- 
ful maids. 

Do  ye,  without  delay,  follow  upon  her  track. 
Her  at  the  throne  we  find  of  the  Inscrutable. 

Chorus.  Royal  ladies,  certes,  everywhere 
are  content ; 

E’en  in  Hades  places  take  they  supreme. 


Proud  to  be  with  their  peers  allied. 

With  Persephone  in  friendship  knit; 

We,  meanwhile,  far  off  in  meadows 
Deep  of  asphodel  abiding. 

With  far-reaching  poplars. 

And  unfruitful  willows  conjoin’d. 

What  amusement  or  joy  have  we  ! 

Flitting,  bat-like  to  twitter — 

Whispering,  undelightsome,  and  ghostlike  ! 

Leader  of  the  Chorus.  Who  hath  no 
name  achiev’d,  nor  at  the  noble  aims. 
Belongs  but  to  the  elements ; so  hence,  be- 
gone ! 

My  vehement  desire  is  with  my  queen  to  be ; 
Not  merit  ’tis  alone,  fidelity  as  well. 

Secure  in  yonder  spheres,  the  individual  life. 

\^Exit. 

All.  Back  are  we  given  now  to  the  day- 
light ; 

Certes,  persons  no  more. 

That  feel  we,  that  know  we  ; 

Nathless  return  we  never  to  Hades ! 
Nature,  eternally  living. 

Claims  in  us  spirits. 

We  in  her,  a title  undoubted. 

A Portion  of  the  Chorus.  We,  amid  the 
wavy-trembling  of  these  thousand  rustling 
branches. 

Gently  lure  with  dalliance  charming  from  the 
root  the  vital  currents. 

Up  into  the  boughs ; with  foliage,  soon  with 
lavish  wealth  of  blossoms. 

We  adorn  our  tresses,  floating  in  the  breeze  for 
airy  growth. 

Falls  the  fruit,  forthwith  assemble  life-enjoying 
folk  and  cattle. 

For  the  grasping,  for  the  tasting,  swiftly 
coming,  onward  pressing. 

And,  as  ’fore  the  gods  primeval,  so  all  bend 
around  us  here. 

Another  Portion.  Where  these  rocky 
walls  are  imag’d  in  the  smooth,  far-gleam- 
ing mirror. 

Moving  in  the  gentle  wavelets,  soothingly  we 
onward  glide. 

Listen,  hearken,  to  all  music  : birdie’s  singing, 
reedy-fluting. 

Is  it  Pan’s  loud  voice  tremendous — voice  re- 
sponsive straight  replies : 

Whisper  is  it  ? — we  too  whisper ; thunders  it  ? 
— we  roll  our  thunder 

In  o’erwhelming  repercussion,  threefold,  ten- 
fold, echoing  back. 

A Third  Portion.  Sisters,  we,  of  spirit 
mobile,  hasten  with  the  brooklets  on- 
ward ; 


156 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 

FAUST.  SECOND  PART. 


HELEN  LEAVING  FAUST. 


For  yon  hill-slopes,  richly  mantl’d,  charm  us 
rising  far  away. 

Ever  downwards,  ever  deeper,  in  meandering 
course  we  water 

Now  the  meadows,  then  the  pastures,  then  the 
garden  round  tlie  house  ; 

There,  across  the  landscape,  slender  cypress 
shafts  our  banks  o’erpeering. 

Telling  of  our  crystal  mirror,  upwards  into 
ether  soar. 

A Fourth  Portion.  Roam  ye  others,  at 
your  pleasure ; we  will  circle,  we  will 
rustle 

Round  the  slopes  so  richly  planted,  on  its  prop 
where  sprouts  the  vine. 

By  the  vintager’s  emotion,  we  throughout  the 
livelong  day. 

See  what  doubtful  issue  waiteth  on  his  busy 
loving  care : 

Now  with  hoe,  and  now  with  mattock,  earth 
upheaping,  pruning,  binding, 

Prayeth  he  to  all  Celestials,  chiefly  to  the  Sun- 
God  prays. 

Bacchus  frets  himself,  the  weakling,  little  for 
his  faithful  vassal. 

Rests  in  arbors,  leans  in  grottoes,  toying  with 
the  youngest  faun  ; 

For  his  visions  what  he  lacketh,  dreaming  half 
inebriate. 

Stor’d  in  skins,  in  jars  and  vessels,  ready  for 
his  use  he  finds. 

Right  and  left  in  cool  recesses  treasur’d  for 
eternal  time. 

But  at  length  have  the  Celestials,  hath  now- 
Helios  ’fore  them  all. 

Breathing,  moistening,  warming,  glowing, 
fill’d  the  berries’  teeming  horn  : 


Where  the  vintager  in  silence  labor’d,  there  is 
sudden  life. 

Busy  stir  in  every  alley,  rustles  round  from 
vine  to  vine ; 

Baskets  creak,  and  pitchers  clatter,  and  the 
loaded  vine-troughs  groan. 

All  towards  the  mighty  wine-press,  to  the 
presser’s  sturdy  dance; 

And  so  is  the  sacred  fullness  of  the  purely- 
nurtur’d  berries 

Rudely  trodden ; foaming,  seething,  now  it 
mingles,  foully  squash’d; 

And  now  splits  the  ear  the  cymbal,  with  the 
beaker’s  brazen  tones. 

For  himself  hath  Dionysos  from  his  mysteries 
reveal’d  ; 

Comes  he  with  goat-footed  satyrs,  reeling 
nymphs  goat-footed  too. 

And  meanwhile  unruly  brayeth  shrill,  Silenus’ 

I long-ear’ d beast — 

I Naught  is  spar’d ; all  law  and  order  cloven 
hoofs  are  treading  down — 

All  the  senses  whirl  distradled,  hideously  the 
ear  is  stunn’d  ; 

Drunkards  for  their  cups  are  groping,  over-full 
are  head  and  paunch  ; 

Careful  one  is,  there  another,  yet  the  tumult 
waxes  loud  : 

Since  the  newer  must  to  garner,  they  the  old 
skins  quickly  drain. 

\_The  ctirtain  falls.  Phorkyas,  in  the  p?'o- 
sccnium,  rises  to  a gigantic  height,  descemls 
from  the  cothurtii,  lays  aside  mask  and 
veil,  and  reveals  herself  as  Mephisto- 
PHELES,  in  order,  so  far  as  it  tnay  be  neces- 
sary, to  comment  upon  the  piece  by  way  of 
epilogue. 


157 


Moving  it  now  divides,  wavelike,  and  full  of 
change ; 

Yet  will  it  shape  itself — mine  eye  deceives  me 
not. 

On  sun-illumin’d  pillows,  gloriously  reclines. 

Of  giant  size  indeed,  a godlike  female  form  j 

I see  it,  like  to  Juno,  Leda,  Helena ; 

In  majesty  and  love  before  mine  eye  it  floats  ! 

Ah,  now  it  scatters ; formless,  broad,  uptower- 

Rests  in  the  East,  and  there,  like  ice-hills  far 
away, 

Mirrors  of  fleeting  life  the  deep  significance. 

Yet  round  me  hovers  still,  a mist-wreath, 
tender,  light. 

Surrounding  breast  and  brow,  cheering,  caress- 
ing, cool. 

Lightly  it  rises  now,  still  lingering,  high  and 
higher, — 

■ Together  draws.  Doth  me  a rapturing  form 
delude. 

As  youth’s  first  fondly  priz’d,  long-yearn’d 
for,  highest  good  ? 

Well  up  the  earliest  treasures  of  my  deepest 
heart : 

To  me  Aurora’s  love,  so  light  of  wing,  it 
shows. 

The  swift-experienc’d  glance,  the  first,  scarce 
understood. 

Which,  long  and  firmly  held,  each  treasure 
overshone  ! 

Like  beauty  of  the  soul  rises  the  gracious 
form, 

Dissolveth  not,  but  upward  into  ether  floats. 

And  with  it,  of  my  being  draws  the  best 
away. 

[A  seven-league  boot  tramps  down,  a?iother 
immediately  follows.  Mephistopheles  de- 
scends. The  boots  stride  onward  in  haste. 


ACT  IV. 


High  Mountain. 

Strong  jagged  rocky  summit.  A cloud  ap- 
proaches, leans  against  the  rock,  and  sinks 
down  upon  a projedling  level.  It  divides. 

Faust.  (Steps  forth.)  On  deepest  solitudes 
down-gazing,  far  below  my  feet. 

Full  thoughtfully  I tread  this  lofty  mountain 
ridge. 

My  cloudy  car  forsaking,  me  which  softly 
bare. 

Through  days  of  sunshine,  hither  over  land 
and  sea. 

Slowly  it  melts  from  me,  not  scatter’d  sud- 
denly ; 

Towards  the  East  the  mass  strives  in  its  rolling 
march. 

In  admiration  lost,  the  eye  strives  after  it ; 


- 

’ 


158 


Mephis.  That’s  forward  striding,  I must 
own  ! 

But  tell  me,  what  dost  thou  intend. 

That  ’mid  such  horrors  dost  descend. 

Such  wilderness  of  yawning  stone? 

Though  not  precisely  here,  I know  it  well ; 
This  was  in  sooth  the  very  floor  of  Hell. 
Faust.  Of  foolish  legends  never  fails  thy 
store  ; 

Such  to  give  forth  dost  thou  begin  once  more? 
Mephis.  (Ser/ous/y.)  When  God  the 
Lord — the  reason  well  I know, — 

Us  from  the  air  had  bann’d  to  depths  pro- 
found. 

There,  where  of  fire  eterne  the  central  glow 
With  lurid  flames  still  circles  round  and 
round. 

By  the  too  brilliant  light,  we  found  that  we 
O’ercrowded  were,  and  plac’d  unpleasantly. 
Forthwith  to  cough  the  devils  all  were  fain  ; 
From  top  to  bottom  straight  they  spat  amain  ; 
With  sulphur-stench  and  acids  thus  inflated. 
Hell,  with  foul  gas,  so  hugely  was  dilated. 
That  earth’s  smooth  surface,  by  the  fiery  blast. 
Thick  as  it  was,  cracking  must  burst  at  last. 
That  all  things  are  revers’d  we  now  discern  ; 
What  bottom  was,  is  summit  in  its  turn ; 

Also  in  this  the  proper  lore  they  base. 

To  give  the  undermost  the  highest  place ; 

For  from  the  hot  and  slavish  cave  we  fare 
Into  the  lordship  of  the  boundless  air ; 

An  open  secret,  long  time  well  conceal’d, 

And  to  the  folk  only  of  late  reveal’d. 

Faust.  To  me  are  mountain-masses  grandly 
dumb ; 

I question  neither  whence  nor  why  they  come. 
Herself  when  Nature  in  herself  had  founded. 
This  globe  of  earth  she  then  hath  purely 
rounded. 

Took  both  in  summit  and  in  gorge  delight. 
Pil’d  rock  on  rock,  and  mountain-height  on 
height ; 

The  hills  she  fashion’d  next  with  gentle  force. 
And  to  the  valleys  slop’d  their  downward 
course  : 

Then  growth  and  verdure  came,  and  for  her 
joy 

She  needs  no  mad  convulsive  freak  employ. 
Mephis.  Ay  ! so  you  say,  sun-clear  to  you 
it  lies  ; 

But  who  was  present  there,  knows  otherwise. 

I was  at  hand  when,  seething  still  below, 
Swell’d  the  abyss,  belching  a fiery  tide. 

When  Moloch’s  hammer  rocks,  with  thunder- 
ous blow 

Welding,  the  fragments  scatter’d  far  and  wide. 


’Neath  massive  foreign  blocks  still  groans  the 
land — 

Such  hurling-might  say  who  can  comprehend ; 
This  your  philosopher  can’t  understand  ; 
There  lies  the  rock,  must  lie,  and  there’s  an 
end  ; 

But  to  our  shame  doth  all  our  thinking  tend. 

1 Your  genuine  common  folk  alone  conceive. 
And  naught  disturbs  them  in  their  creed  ; 
Long  since  their  wisdom  ripen’d  : they  be- 
lieve 

A marvel  ’tis,  Satan  receives  his  meed  ; 

On  crutch  of  faith  my  pilgrim  hobbles  on 
To  Devil’s  bridges,  to  the  Devil’s  stone. 
Faust.  Noteworthy  ’tis.  Nature,  as  now  I 
do. 

To  study  from  the  Devil’s  point  of  view. 
Mephis.  Be  Nature  what  she  may,  what 
do  I care  ! 

My  honor’s  touch’d  : the  Devil,  sooth,  was 
there  ! 

We  are  the  folk,  the  mighty  to  attain  ; 
Convulsion,  madness,  force.  ’Tis  written 
plain  ! — 

But  now,  at  last,  to  make  my  meaning  clear. 
Did  nothing  please  thee  in  our  upper  sphere  ? 
In  boundless  space  the  world  thou  hast  sur- 
vey’d, 

Its  kingdoms  and  their  glory,  all  display’d. 
And  yet,  insatiate  as  thou  art. 

To  thee  did  they  no  joy  impart? 

Faust.  A proje<5l  vast  allur’d  me  on ; 
Divine  it ! 

Mephis.  That  I’ll  do  anon. 

Some  capital  I’d  choose  ; therein  a store 
Of  burgher-feeding  rubbish  at  its  core ; 

With  crooked  alleys,  gabl’d  peaks, 

Markets  confin’d,  kale,  turnips,  leeks. 

And  shambles  where  blue  flies  repair. 

On  well-fed  joints  to  fatten — there. 

At  any  moment  shalt  thou  find 
Stench  and  adlivity  combin’d  ; 

Wide  squares,  with  spacious  streets  between. 
Which  arrogate  a lordly  mien  ; 

And  lastly,  boundless  to  the  eye. 

Beyond  the  gate,  the  suburbs  lie. 

Of  coaches  too,  th’  eternal  roar, 

' Still  rattling,  behind,  before. 

Would  charm  me  and  the  ceaseless  flow 
Of  ant-swarms,  running  to  and  fro  ; 

And  let  me  walk,  or  let  me  ride, 

Their  central  point  I should  abide, 

By  thousands  honor’d  and  admir’d. 

Faust.  Such  things  I slightly  estimate. 
That  men,  it  is  to  be  desir’d. 

Should  multiply,  should  live  at  ease. 


U9 


Be  taught,  develop’d  if  you  please; — 

More  rebels  thus  you  educate. 

Mephis.  Then,  in  grand  style,  with  con- 
scious power.  I’d  rear 
A pleasure-castle,  some  fair  pleasance  near : 
Hill,  valley,  meadow,  forest,  glade. 

Into  a splendid  garden  made. 

With  velvet  lawns  and  verdurous  walls. 
Straight  paths,  art-guided  shadows,  waterfalls. 
From  rock  to  rock  constrain’d  to  wind, 

And  water-jets  of  every  kind  ; 

Majestic  soaring  there  while  at  the  sides. 

With  whiz  and  gush,  threadlike  the  stream  di- 
vides. 

Then  for  the  loveliest  women  I’d  prepare 
A tiny  lodge,  cosy  and  quiet ; there 
The  countless  hours,  according  to  my  mood 
I’d  spend,  in  that  sweet  social  solitude — 
Women,  I say  : since,  once  for  all, 

I in  the  plural  think  upon  the  Fair. 

Faust.  Modern  and  base  ! Sardanapal  ! 
Mephis.  Might  one  but  guess  thy  purpose? 
High, 

Doubtless,  and  grandly  bold  ! Since  thou 
By  so  much  nearer  to  the  moon  didst  fly. 
Aptly  thy  choice  might  thither  tend,  I trow  ! 

Faust.  Not  so.  Upon  this  globe  of  ours 
For  grand  achievement  still  there’s  space  ; 
Something  astounding  shall  take  place. 

For  daring  toil  I feel  new  powers. 

Mephis.  Fame  also  to  achieve  thou’rt  fain? 
That  thou  hast  been  with  heroines  is  plain. 
Faust.  Dominion  and  estate  by  me  are 
sought. 

The  deed  is  everything,  the  fame  is  naught ! 

Mephis.  Yet  poets  shall  arise,  thy  fame 
To  after  ages  to  proclaim. 

Through  folly,  folly  to  inflame. 

Faust.  That  is  beyond  thy  scope,  I ween ; 
How  knowest  thou,  what  man  desires? 
Adverse  thy  nature,  bitter,  keen. 

How  knoweth  it,  what  man  requires? 

Mephis.  Be  thy  will  done,  since  yield  I 
must. 

Me  with  the  circuit  of  thy  whims  entrust. 
Faust.  Mine  eye  was  fix’d  upon  the  open 
sea : 

Aloft  it  tower’d,  upheaving ; then  once  more 
Withdrew,  and  shook  its  waves  exultingly. 

To  storm  the  wide  expanse  of  level  shore — 
That  anger’d  me,  since  arrogance  of  mood. 

In  the  free  soul,  that  values  every  right. 
Through  the  impetuous  passion  of  the  blood. 
Harsh  feeling  genders,  in  its  own  despite. 

I deem’d  it  chance ; more  keenly  eyed  the 
main  : 


The  billow  paus’d,  and  then  roll’d  back  again. 
And  from  its  proudly  conquer’d  goal  with- 
drew ; 

The  hour  returns,  the  sport  it  doth  renew — 
Mephis.  (Ad  spe&atores.)  For  me  there’s 
nothing  novel  here,  I own  ; 

This  for  some  hundred  thousand  years  I’ve 
known. 

Faust.  ( Continues  passionately.) 

On  through  a thousand  channels  it  doth  press. 
Barren  itself,  and  causing  barrenness  ; 

It  waxes,  swells,  it  rolls  and  spreads  its  reign 
Over  the  waste  and  desolate  domain. 

There,  power-inspir’d,  wave  upon  wave  sweeps 
on. 

Triumphs  awhile,  retreats — and  naught  is  done : 
It  to  despair  might  drive  me  to  survey 
Of  lawless  elements  the  aimless  sway  ! 

To  soar  above  itself  then  dar’d  my  soul; 

Here  would  I strive,  this  force  would  I control ! 

And  it  is  possible.  Howe’er  the  tide 
May  rise,  it  fawneth  round  each  hillock’s  side; 
However  proudly  it  may  domineer. 

Each  puny  height  its  crest  doth  ’gainst  it  rear, 
Each  puny  deep  it  forcefully  allures. 

So  swiftly  plan  on  plan  my  mind  matures ; 
This  glorious  pleasure  for  thyself  attain  ; 

Back  from  the  shore  to  bar  the  imperious 
main. 

Narrow  the  limits  of  the  watery  deep, 
Constrain  it  far  into  itself  to  sweep  ! 

My  purpose  step  by  step  I might  lay  bare : 
That  is  my  wish,  to  aid  it  boldly  dare  ! 

(Drums  and  ’ma?-tial  music  behind  the  spec- 
tators, from  the  distance,  o?i  the  right  hand. 

Mephis.  How  easy  ’tis! — Hear’st  thou  the 
drums  afar  ? 

Faust.  What,  war  again  ! — The  prudent 
likes  not  war. 

Mephis.  In  peace  or  war  the  prudent  doth 
obtain 

From  every  circumstance  his  proper  gain. 

We  watch,  we  mark  each  favoring  moment ; 
now. 

The  occasion  smileth — Faustus,  seize  it  thou  ! 
Faust.  Me,  I entreat,  this  riddling  non- 
sense spare. 

And  short  and  good,  speak  out ; — thyself  de- 
clare. 

Mephis.  On  my  way  hither  I became  aware 
That  the  good  emperor  is  vex’d  with  care; 
Thou  knowest  him.  The  while  we  him  amus’d. 
And  with  the  show  of  riches  him  abus’d. 

Then  the  whole  world  to  him  was  cheap,  since 


i6o 


While  young  attain’d  to  regal  dignity; 

This  false  resolve  did  then  beguile  his  leisure, 
That  possible  it  is  and  right 
Together  these  two  interests  to  unite, 

At  once  to  govern,  and  to  take  one’s  pleasure. 
Faust.  A grievous  error  ! He  who  would 
command. 

His  highest  bliss  must  in  commanding  find. 
With  lofty  will  his  bosom  must  expand. 

Yet  what  he  willeth  may  not  be  divin’d ; 

To  trusty  ear  he  whispers  his  intent, 

’Tis  realiz’d, — all  feel  astonishment; 

So  holds  he  still  the  most  exalted  place. 

The  worthiest.  Enjoyment  doth  debase  ! 
Mephis.  Such  is  he  not ; on  pleasure  he 
was  bent ! 

Meanwhile  the  realm  by  anarchy  was  rent. 
Where  high  and  low  were  rang’d  against  each 
other. 

And  brother  still  pursu’d  and  slaughter’d 
brother, 

Castle  ’gainst  castle,  town  ’gainst  town  had 
feud, 

Guild  against  noble  too  ; in  conflidl  rude. 
Chapter  and  flock  against  their  bishop  rose ; 
Who  on  each  other  gaz’d,  were  foes ; 

Within  the  churches  death  and  murder  reign. 
Merchant  and  traveller  at  the  gates  were  slain ; 
All  wax’d  in  daring,  nor  to  small  extent ; 

To  live  was  self-defence. — So  matters  went. 
Faust.  They  went,  they  limp’d,  they  fell, 
again  they  rose. 

Were  overturn’d,  roll’d  headlong — such  the 
close. 

Mephis.  And  such  condition  no  one  dar’d 
to  blame. 

Authority  each  could  and  each  would  claim ; 
The  smallest  even  proudly  rear’d  his  crest. 

At  length  too  mad  it  grew  e’en  for  the  best. 
The  able,  they  forthwith  arose  with  might. 
And  said  : Who  gives  us  peace  is  lord,  by 
right ; 

The  Emperor  cannot,  will  not ! — Let  us  choose 
Another,  in  the  realm  who  shall  infuse 
Fresh  life,  and  safety  unto  each  assign. 

Who  in  a world  its  vigor  that  renews, 

Together  peace  and  justice  shall  combine  ! 
Faust.  That  sounds  like  priestcraft. 
Mephis.  Priests  in  sooth  were  there  ; 

The  well-fed  paunch,  that  was  their  primal 
care ; 

They  implicated  were  above  the  rest. 

The  tumult  swell’d,  the  priests  the  tumult 
bless’ d ; 

Our  Emperor,  whom  we  beguil’d,  perchance 
To  his  last  battle  hither  doth  advance. 


Faust.  I pity  him — so  frank,  so  kind  of 
heart. 

Mephis.  Let  us  look  on.  There’s  hope 
ere  life  depart. 

Him  from  this  narrow  vale  let  us  deliver ! 

If  rescu’d  now,  he  rescu’d  is  forever. 

How  yet  the  die  may  fall,  who  may  divine  ! 
Vassals  he’ll  have,  if  Fortune  on  him  shine. 
\_They  ascend  the  7uiddle  rafige  of  hills  and 
survey  the  disposition  of  the  army  in  the 
valley.  Drums  and  military  tnusic  re- 
sound from  below. 

Mephis.  Well  chosen  the  position  is,  I 
see ; 

We’ll  join  them,  perfedl  then  the  vidlory. 
Faust.  What  there  may  we  expedl  ? De- 
I ceit ! 

' Illusive  sorcery  ! A hollow  cheat ! 

Mephis.  Cunning  to  win  war’s  lofty  game ! 
Be  constant  to  thy  mighty  aim. 

The  while  thy  goal  dost  bear  in  sight ; 

Secure  we  to  the  Emperor  throne  and  land. 
Then  kneel,  from  him  receiving  as  thy  right. 
The  fief  of  the  unbounded  strand. 

Faust.  Already  much  for  me  hast  done ; 
By  thee  be  now  a battle  won  ! 

Mephis.  No,  do  thou  win  it ; forthwith 
here 

As  general-in-chief  appear. 

Faust.  To  my  true  honor  it  would  tend. 
There  to  command  where  naught  I compre- 
hend ! 

Mephis.  The  general’s  staff,  let  that  pro- 
vide. 

So  the  field-marshal’s  safe  whate’er  betide. 
War’s  want  of  council  to  its  source  I’ve 
trac’d  ; 

War’s  council  I forthwith  have  bas’d 
On  mountain’s  and  on  man’s  primeval  force  ; 
Bless’d  who  together  draws  their  joint  resource. 
Faust.  What  yonder  bearing  arms  ap- 
pears ? 

Hast  thou  arous’d  the  mountaineers? 

Mephis.  No,  but  like  Master  Peter 
Squenze, 

Of  the  whole  mass  the  quintessence. 

[ The  three  mighty  ones  enter. 
My  fellows  now  are  drawing  near  ! 

Divers  the  clothes,  the  arms,  they  wear. 

Of  different  ages  they  appear; 

With  them  not  badly  shalt  thou  fare. 

[^Ad  spedlatores. 

There’s  not  a child  but  loves  to  see 
Harness  and  arms  of  warlike  knight ; 

And,  allegoric  as  the  rascals  be. 

They,  for  that  reason,  give  the  more  delight. 

i6i 


Bully.  ( You7ig,  lightly  armed,  in  motley 
attire.)  If  one  but  looks  into  my  eyes, 
Straight  let  his  jaws  my  clenched  fist  beware, 
And  if  a coward  from  me  flies. 

Forthwith  I seize  him  by  the  hair  ! 

Havequick.  (Manly,  well  atmed,  in  rich 
attire.)  Such  brawls  are  foolish,  are  in- 
vidious. 

They  forfeit  what  the  occasion  brings ; 

In  taking  only  be  assiduous ; 

Hereafter  look  to  other  things. 

Holdfast.  ( In  years,  strongly  armed,  with- 
out attire.)  Not  much  by  such  a course 
is  won  ; 

Through  great  possessions  soon  we  run. 

Borne  by  the  stream  of  life  away. 

To  take  is  good,  ’tis  better  fast  to  hold  ; 

Be  still  by  the  gray  carle  controll’d. 

And  none  from  thee  takes  aught  away. 

[ They  desce?id  the  mountain  together. 


On  the  Headland. 

Drums  atid  martial  music  from  below.  The 

Emperor’s  tent  is  pitched.  Emperor, 
General-in-Chief,  Attendants. 

General-in-Chief.  Still  duly  weigh’d  ap- 
pears our  course, 

Back  to  this  vale  at  hand  that  lies. 

To  lead  when  somewhat  press’d  our  force  ; 

Our  choice  of  ground,  I trust,  is  wise. 

Emperor.  How  it  succeeds  must  soon  be 
known. 

Me  this  half  flight,  this  yielding,  grieves,  I 
own. 

General-in-Chief.  On  our  right  flank, 
my  prince,  now  cast  your  eyes  ! 

Such  ground  doth  war’s  ideal  realize: 

Not  steep  the  hills,  nor  yet  too  easy  to  ascend. 

The  enemy  ensnaring,  while  they  ours  be- 
friend ; 

We,  on  the  wavelike  plain,  are  half  con- 
ceal’d— 

No  cavalry  durst  venture  on  such  field. 

Emperor.  Save  to  commend  naught  now 
remains  for  me ; 

Here  strength  and  courage  can  well  tested  be. 

General-in-Chief.  There,  where  the 
middle  plain  allures  the  sight. 

Behold  the  phalanx,  eager  for  the  fight ; 

In  the  bright  sunshine,  gilded  by  its  rays. 

The  lances  glitter  through  the  morning  haze. 

How  darkly  waves  the  mighty  square  below  ! 

For  bold  emprise  its  thousands  all  aglow. 


The  mass’s  strength  thou  thus  canst  com- 
prehend ; 

To  them  I trust,  the  foemen’s  strength  to 
rend. 

Emperor.  So  fair  a sight  ne’er  have  I seen 
before  : 

Such  host  is  worth  its  number,  twice  told  o’er. 

General-in-Chief.  Of  our  left  flank 
naught  have  I to  relate. 

Holding  the  stubborn  cliffs,  stout  heroes  wait ; 

Ablaze  with  arms,  the  rocky  height  ascends. 

Which  the  close  entrance  to  the  pass  de- 
fends. 

Here,  where  the  bloody  onslaught  none  ex- 
pedl. 

The  hostile  force  will,  I foresee,  be  wreck’d. 

Emperor.  There  march  my  lying  kinsfolk, 
still  who  claim’d. 

As  me  they  uncle,  cousin,  brother,  nam’d. 

More  and  more  license ; till  the  sceptre’s 
strength. 

Its  honor  from  the  throne,  they  stole  at  length  ; 

The  empire,  through  their  feuds,  distradled 
lies. 

Now,  leagu’d  as  rebels,  they  against  me  rise  ! 

The  many  waver,  sway’d  from  side  to  side; 

Then  headlong  rush,  borne  onward  by  the 
tide. 

General-in-Chief.  A trusty  man,  abroad 
for  tidings  sent. 

Hastes  down  the  rocks ; oh,  happy  be  the 
event. 

First  Spy.  Fair  success  on  us  hath  waited; 
Through  our  bold  and  crafty  art, 

Here  and  there  we  penetrated  ; 

Little  good  can  we  impart : 

Many  pure  allegiance  proffer’d  ; 

But  for  their  inadtion  they. 

In  excuse,  these  pretexts  offer’d, 

Public  danger,  civil  fray — 

Emperor.  Self-seekers,  caring  for  them- 
selves alone. 

To  duty,  honor,  gratitude,  are  blind  ! 

If  full  your  measure,  you  ne’er  call  to  mind, 

Your  neighbor’s  house-fire  may  consume  your 
own. 

General-in-Chief.  The  second  comes, 
descending  heavily  ; 

Tremble  his  limbs,  a weary  man  is  he. 

Second  Spy.  First  with  pleasure  we  de- 
tedled 

The  wild  tumult’s  erring  course. 
Undelaying,  unexpected, 

A new  emperor  leads  his  force ; 

And  with  his  behests  complying, 

O’er  the  plain  the  concourse  sweep. 


162 


'Fills  false  banner,  proudly  flying, 

'Fhey  all  follow  now — like  sheep  ! 
Emperor.  As  gain  a rival  emperor  I hail ; 
'Fhat  I am  emperor,  now  first  I feel  ! 

But  as  a soldier  did  I don  the  mail  ; 

For  higher  purpose  now  I’m  clad  in  steel. 

At  every  festival,  how  bright  soe’er. 

Though  naught  was  wanting — danger  fail’d 
me  there. 

When  to  the  ring-sport  at  your  call  I went. 
My  heart  beat  high,  I breath’d  the  tourna- 
ment ; 


From  war  had  ye  not  held  me  back,  my 
name 

For  deeds  heroic  had  been  known  to  fame  ! 
What  self-reliance  in  my  breast  did  reign. 
When  I stood  mirror’d  in  the  fire-domain  ; 
The  ruthless  element  press’d  on  elate, 

’Twas  but  a show,  and  yet  the  show  was 
great. 

Fame,  vidtory,  my  troubl’d  dreams  display’d — 
I’ll  now  achieve,  what  basely  I delay’d  ! 

{Heralds  are  despatched  to  challenge  the  rival 
Emperor. 


163 


[Faust  in  armor,  with  half -closed  visor.  The 
three  mighty  ones,  armed  and  clothed,  as 
above. 

Faust.  We  come,  we  hope  uncensur’d — 
foresight  here 

May  yet  avail,  though  needless  it  appear. 
Thoughtful,  thou  know’st,  and  wise  the  moun- 
tain-race. 

Of  rock  and  nature  they  the  secrets  trace  ; 
Spirits,  who  long  have  left  the  level  ground, 
Are  to  their  rocky  heights  more  firmly  bound : 
Through  labyrinthine  clefts  they  labor,  where 
Rich  fumes  metallic  fill  the  gaseous  air ; 
Untir’d  they  separate,  combine  and  test ; 

The  hidden  to  make  known  is  their  sole  quest ; 
With  the  light  touch  of  spirit-might,  they  rear 
Transparent  figures,  then  in  crystal  clear 
And  its  eternal  silence,  mirror’d  true. 

The  doings  of  the  upper  world  they  view. 

Emperor.  This  I have  heard,  and  think 
that  it  may  be  ; 

But,  honest  man,  say : what  is  this  to  me? 

Faust.  The  Norcian  sorcerer,  the  Sabine, 
he 

True,  honorable  servant  is  to  thee ; 

What  ghastly  fate  appall’d  him,  on  the  pyre  ! 
Crackl’d  the  brushwood,  rose  the  tongues  of 
fire ; 

Dry  fagots  all  around  up-piled  were  seen. 
Mingl’d  with  pitch,  with  brimstone-bars  be- 
tween, 

Man’s,  God’s,  or  devil’s  aid  had  been  in  vain — 
Your  majesty  then  burst  the  fiery  chain  ! 

’Twas  there,  in  Rome.  Deeply  to  thee  he’s 
bound. 

And  o’er  thy  path  keeps  watch  with  care  pro- 
found ; 

Himself  forgetting,  from  that  moment  he 
Questions  the  stars,  questions  the  depths  for 
thee. 

He  bade  us,  at  the  swiftest,  hither  post. 

To  succor  thee.  Great  powers  the  mountains 
boast : 

There  Nature  works,  omnipotently  free — 

The  priest’s  dull  mind  blames  it  as  sorcery. 

Emperor.  On  festal  day  when  guest  on 
guest  we  greet, 

Joyful  themselves,  who  joyance  come  to  meet. 
Well  pleas’d  we  see  them  enter,  each  and  all, 
And,  man  by  man,  contradh  the  spacious  hall ; 
Yet  highest  welcome  is  the  brave  man’s  dower. 
Who,  as  ally  to  aid  us,  comes  with  power, 
When  morning  breaks,  which  doubtful  issues 
wait. 

While  over  it  are  pois’d  the  scales  of  Eate. 

1 64 


Nathless  withhold  awhile  thy  stalwart  hand. 

In  this  high  moment,  from  the  willing  brand  ! 
Honor  the  hour,  when  many  thousands  wend 
To  battle,  for  or  ’gainst  me  to  contend  ! 

Man’s  self  is  man  ! Who  would  be  thron’d 
and  crown’d. 

Of  the  high  honor  must  be  worthy  found. 

Now  may  this  phantom,  that  against  us  stands. 
This  self-styl’d  emperor,  ruler  of  our  lands. 
The  army’s  duke,  lord  of  our  feudal  train. 

By  my  own  hand,  be  thrust  to  death’s  domain  ! 
Faust.  Whate’er  the  need  to  end  the  glo- 
rious fight. 

To  peril  thine  own  head  cannot  be  right. 

Is  not  the  helm  with  crest  and  plumage  deck’d? 
The  head,  our  zeal  which  fires,  it  doth  protedl. 
Without  the  head  what  could  the  members  do? 
Let  that  but  sleep,  forthwith  all  slumber  too ; 
If  it  be  injur’d,  all  are  straight  unsound. 

And  all  revive,  if  it  with  health  be  crown’d. 
Promptly  the  arm  its  own  strong  right  doth 
wield. 

And  to  protedl  the  skull  uplifts  the  shield ; 

Its  proper  duty  well  the  sword  doth  know. 
Parries  with  strength,  and  then  returns  the 
blow  \ 

The  adlive  foot  shares  in  the  common  weal. 
And  on  the  slain  foe’s  neck  doth  plant  the  heel. 
Emperor.  Such  is  mine  anger : him  I thus 
would  treat. 

Make  his  proud  head  a footstool  for  my  feet ! 
Heralds.  (Retiirnmg.)  Little  profit,  little 
credit. 

From  our  challenge  did  we  gain  ; 

Noble  ’twas,  yet  while  we  read  it. 

Us  they  flouted  with  disdain  : 

“ Spent  your  Emperor’s  power,” — they  say, 
“Like  echo  in  yon  narrow  vale  ; 

Would  we  think  of  him  to-day; — 

Once  there  was  : — so  runs  the  tale.” 

Eaust.  What  hath  occurr’d  doth  with 
their  wish  accord. 

Who  firm  and  true  for  thee  would  draw  the 
sword. 

The  foe  approach  ; thy  troops  impatient  stand ; 
The  moment  favors;  straight  the  charge  com- 
mand ! 

Emperor.  To  the  command  all  claim  I 
now  resign. 

(7h  the  General-in-Chief.) 

To  execute  that  duty,  prince,  be  thine  ! 

General-in-Chief.  March  then  our  right 
wing  onward  to  the  field  ! 

The  foemen’s  left,  who  even  now  ascend. 

Ere  they  complete  their  final  step,  shall  yield 
To  their  tried  valor  who  the  slope  defend  ! 


Faust.  Permission  grant  that  this  blithe 
hero  be 

Enroll’d  among  thy  ranks,  immediately, 

That  with  thy  ranks  incorporate,  he  may 
Have  for  his  powerful  nature  ample  play. 

\_He  pomts  to  the  right. 

Bully.  (Steps  forsaard.)  His  face  to  me 
who  shows  doth  not  escape. 

Till  both  his  jaws  I’ve  smash’d  with  sudden 
bang ; 

His  back  to  me  who  turns,  I strike  his  nape, — 
Dangling  adown  his  back,  neck,  head,  and 
top-knot  hang ! 

And  if,  with  sword  and  club,  thy  men 
Will  strike,  as  on  I rage  before, 

Man  over  man  down-smitten,  then 

The  foe  shall  welter  in  their  gore  ! \_Exit. 

General-in-Chief.  Now  let  the  centre 
phalanx  follow  slow. 

And  in  full  force  with  caution  meet  the  foe  ! 
Distress’d,  they  yield  already  on  the  right. 
Their  plan,  by  our  attack,  is  shatter’d  quite. 

Faust.  (Poi7iting  to  the  middle  one.)  Let 
this  one  also  thy  command  obey. 

Havequick.  (Steps  forward.)  Unto  the 
host’s  heroic  pride. 

Shall  thirst  for  booty  be  alli’d  ; 

Upon  this  goal  be  all  intent ; 

The  rival  emperor’s  sumptuous  tent. 

Not  long  upon  his  throne  he’ll  boast  indeed  ! 
Myself  to  battle  will  this  phalanx  lead. 

Speed-Booty,  Sutler-woman.  ( Fawning 
upon  him.)  Although  his  wife  I may  not 
be, 

A sweetheart  dear  is  he  to  me. 

For  us  what  harvest  now  is  ripe  ! 

Woman  is  fierce  when  she  doth  gripe. 

Is  ruthless  when  she  robs ; press  on. 

All  is  allow’d — when  we  have  won. 

\_Exeu7it. 

General-in-Chief.  Upon  our  left,  as  was 
to  be  expedled. 

With  furious  charge,  their  right  is  now  di- 
rected. 

The  defile’s  rocky  path  they  hope  to  gain  ; 

To  thwart  their  purpose  man  for  man  must 
strain. 

Faust.  (Beckons  to  the  left.)  Sire,  I en- 
treat, look  also  on  this  one  ; 

If  strength  be  stronger  made,  no  harm  is  done. 

Holdfast.  (Steps forward.)  For  the  left 
wing  dismiss  all  care  ! 

For  where  I am,  safe  is  possession  there  : 
Herein  doth  age  approve  itself,  we’re  told ; 

No  lightning  rendeth,  what  I hold  ! 

\_Exit. 


I Mephis.  ( Coming  down  from  above.) 
i Now  to  the  background  turn  your  gaze  ; 

I Forth  from  the  jagg’d  and  rocky  ways, 

See  how  the  armed  warriors  pour. 

The  narrow  paths  to  straiten  more, 

With  helm,  shield,  harness,  sword  and  spear, 
A wall  they’re  forming  in  our  rear. 

Waiting  the  sign  to  strike  the  blow. 

( Aside,  to  the  knowing  ones.) 

From  whence  they  come,  ask  not  to  know. 

I No  time  I lost;  where  I appear’d. 

! The  armor-halls  around  were  clear’d. 

Footmen  and  horsemen,  stood  they  there, 

As  if  yet  lords  of  earth  they  were ; 

Knight,  emperor,  king,  they  were  of  yore. 
Now  are  they  empty  snail-shells,  nothing 
more, — 

I Full  many  a ghost,  thus  arm’d  for  strife. 

The  middle  ages  have  brought  back  to  life  ; 
What  devilkin  therein  may  lurk. 

For  this  time  it  may  do  its  work. 

( Aloud.) 

Hark,  in  their  anger,  how  they  clatter, 

And  like  tin  plates,  each  other  batter ; 

Torn  banners  too,  flapping  aloft  one  sees, 
That  wait  impatiently  to  catch  the  breeze. 
Refledl,  an  ancient  race  stands  ready  there. 
And  in  this  modern  combat  fain  would 
share. 

[ Terrible  flourish  of  trumpets  fro7?i  above  ; 

perceptible  wavering  in  the  hostile  ar77iy. 
Faust.  Now  dark  the  whole  horizon 
shows. 

Yet  here  and  there  presageful  glows 
A ruddy  and  portentous  ray  ; 

The  weapons  gleam,  distain ’d  with  blood  ; 
The  atmosphere,  the  rock,  the  wood. 

The  heavens,  mingle  in  the  fray. 

Mephis.  Firmly  the  right  flank  holds  its 
ground ; 

Among  them  towering  there  I see 
Stout  Hans,  the  nimble  giant,  he 
His  wonted  strokes  now  deals  around. 

Emperor.  First  on  one  lifted  arm  I gaz’d, 
A dozen  now  I see  uprais’d  : 

Not  nature’s  laws  are  working  here  ! 

Faust.  Of  mist-wreaths  hast  not  heard, 
above 

The  coast  of  Sicily  that  rove  ? 

There  hovering  in  daylight  clear. 

Uplifted  in  the  middle  air. 

Mirror’d  in  exhalations  rare, 

A wondrous  show  the  vision  takes. 

There  cities  waver  to  and  fro. 

There  gardens  rise,  now  high,  now  low. 

As  form  on  form  through  ether  breaks. 


Emperor.  It  looks  suspicious ! For  I 
there 

See  all  the  lofty  spear-tops  glare ; 

And  through  our  phalanx,  on  each  lance 
I see  a nimble  flamelet  dance ; 

Too  spedtral  seems  to  me  the  sight ! 

Faust.  Pardon,  my  lord ! The  traces 
they 

Of  spirit-natures  pass’d  away, 

A reflex  of  the  mighty  Pair, 

By  whom  were  sailors  wont  to  swear : 

Here  they  colledt  their  final  might. 

Emperor.  To  whom  are  we  beholden,  say, 
That  nature,  for  our  weal  to-day. 

Her  rarest  powers  should  here  unite  ? 

Mephis.  To  whom  save  him,  that  master 
high. 

Thy  fate  who  bears  within  his  breast? 

The  strong  threat  of  thine  enemy 
His  soul  hath  stirr’d  to  deep  unrest. 

His  gratitude  will  see  thee  sav’d. 

Though  death  in  the  attempt  he  brav’d. 

Emperor.  They  cheer’d,  with  pomp  around 
my  march  they  press’d  ; 

I now  was  something : That  I fain  would  test. 
So,  without  thought,  it  pleas’d  me,  then  and 
there. 

To  grant  to  that  white  beard  the  cooling  air. 
Thus  of  the  clergy  I the  sport  have  cross’d. 
And  have,  in  sooth,  thereby  their  favor  lost ; 
Now  shall  I,  when  so  many  years  are  pass’d. 
Of  that  glad  deed  the  fruitage  reap  at  last  ? 
Faust.  Rich  interest  bears  the  generous 
deed. 

Now  heavenward  be  thy  glance  diredted  : 

An  omen  he  will  send ; give  heed  ! 

Straight  it  appears — as  I expedled. 

Emperor.  An  eagle  hovers  in  the  heavenly 
height ; 

A griffin,  with  wild  threats,  attends  his  flight. 
Faust.  Give  heed  ! Auspicious  seems  the 
sign. 

Your  griffin  is  of  fabl’d  line ; 

How,  self-forgetting,  can  he  dare 
Himself  with  genuine  eagle  to  compare  ! 
Emperor.  Forthwith,  in  widespread  circles 
wending. 

Around  they  wheel ; now,  through  the  sky. 
Impetuous,  they  together  fly. 

Each  other’s  throat  and  plumage  rending. 

Faust.  Mark  how  the  sorry  griffin,  torn 
And  ruffl’d  sore,  his  flight  now  steereth. 

With  drooping  lion-tail,  forlorn. 

And  ’mid  the  tree-tops  disappeareth. 

Emperor.  So  be  it,  e’en  as  these  portend  ! 
With  wonder  fill’d,  I wait  the  end. 

1 66 


Mephis.  ( To^vards  the  right.)  Press’d  by 
our  onslaught,  oft-repeated. 

Our  foes  must  yield,  well  nigh  defeated. 

Yet,  waging  still  a dubious  fight, 

Onward  they  press  toward  their  right. 

And  thus  embarrass  in  the  fray 
The  left  flank  of  their  chief  array. 

Our  phalanx  its  firm  point  doth  bring. 

Like  lightning  ’gainst  their  dexter  wing, 

The  foe,  where  weakest,  they  engage. 

Now,  as  when  storm-vex’d  billows  rage. 
Wildly  contend,  with  equal  might. 

Both  armies  in  the  double  fight. 

More  glorious  deed  was  never  done. 

Ours  is  the  field,  the  viiSlory’s  won  ! 

Emperor.  ( On  the  left  side,  to  Faust.  J 
Suspicious  yonder  it  doth  seem ; 

Our  station  hazardous  I deem. 

No  stones  they  hurl  against  the  foe. 

Scal’d  are  the  lower  rocks,  and  lo  ! 

Deserted  those  above  appear; 

The  foe,- — in  solid  mass,  draw  near ; 

With  might  and  main  still  pressing  on. 
Perchance  the  passage  they  have  won  : 

Of  skill  unholy  such  the  end  ! 

Your  arts  to  futile  issues  tend  ! \^Patise. 

Mephis.  Hither,  my  ravens  twain  are 
winging ! 

For  us  what  message  are  they  bringing  ? 

We  are,  I fear,  in  evil  plight. 

Emperor.  What  want  these  birds,  mis- 
chance portending? 

They  come  their  swarthy  sails  extending. 
Straight  from  the  hot  and  rocky  fight. 

Mephis.  ( To  the  ravens.)  Close  to  mine 
ears  now  take  your  post. 

Whom  you  protedl,  is  never  lost ; 

For  shrewd  your  counsel  is  and  right. 

Faust.  ( To  the  Emperor.)  Of  pigeons 
thou  hast  heard,  returning 
Homeward,  for  nest  and  fledglings  yearning. 
Steering  their  flight  from  far-off"  lands. 

But  here  a difference  obtaineth  : 

Pigeons  suffice  while  peace  still  reigneth. 

But  war  the  raven-post  demands. 

Mephis.  The  message  tells  of  sore  dis- 
tresses. 

See  yonder  how  the  tumult  presses 
Our  heroes’  rocky  wall  around  ! 

The  nearest  heights  are  now  ascended. 

Win  they  the  pass  by  ours  defended. 

In  sorry  plight  we  should  be  found. 

Emperor.  So  I deluded  am  at  last ! 
Around  me  you  have  drawn  your  net ; 

I’ve  shudder’d,  since  it  held  me  fast ! 


Mephis.  Take  courage  ! Naught  is  lost  as 
yet ; 

Patience  unties  the  hardest  knot ! 

Still  sharpest  is  the  final  stand. 

My  trusty  messengers  I’ve  got ; 

Command  me,  that  I may  command. 

General-in-Chief,  f IF/io  meanwhile  has 
arrived. ) With  these  thou  hast  thyself 
alli’d, 

I long  have  griev’d  to  see  them  at  thy  side ; 
No  stable  good  doth  conjuring  earn. 

To  change  the  battle  now  I can’t  pretend ; 
They  have  begun  it,  they  may  end  ! 

My  staff  I unto  thee  return. 

Emperor.  It  for  some  better  hour  retain, 
Which  Fate  for  us  may  have  in  store. 

This  fellow  and  his  ravens  twain. 

His  horrid  comrades,  I abhor  ! 

(To  Mephistopheles. j 
The  staff  I can’t  on  thee  bestow, 

Thou  seemest  not  the  proper  man ; 

Command,  and  save  us  from  the  foe  ! 

Then  happen  may  what  happen  can. 

\_Exii  into  the  tent  with  the  General-in- 
Chief. 

Mephis.  Him  may  the  stupid  staff  de- 
fend ! 

To  us  small  profit  would  it  lend  ; 

There  was  a kind  of  cross  thereon. 

Faust.  What  is  to  do  ? 

Mephis.  Why,  all  is  done  ! 

Now  haste,  my  cousins,  swart  and  fleet. 

To  the  great  mountain  lake;  the  Undines 
greet. 

And  for  a seeming  flood,  entreat  them  fair  ! 
The  adlual  they  indeed,  through  female  art. 
Hard  to  conceive,  from  semblance  know  to 

That  it  the  adlual  is,  then  each  will  swear. 

\^Pause. 

Faust.  The  water-maidens  must  our  raven- 
pair 

Rightly  have  flatter’d  and  with  cunning 
rare  : 

Yonder  it  drops  already  ; see 
From  many  a bare  rock’s  barren  side. 

Gushes  the  full,  swift-flowing  tide — 

’Tis  over  with  their  vidlory. 

Mephis.  Strange  greeting  give  the  rushing 
streams — 

Perplex’d  the  boldest  climber  seems. 

Faust.  Already  downward  brook  to  brook 
is  sweeping. 

Doubl’d  from  many  a gorge  again  they’re 
leaping ; 

A stately  water-arch  one  stream  doth  throw ; 


Now  o’er  the  rock’s  broad  level  smoothly 
gliding. 

Anon,  with  flash  and  roar,  again  dividing. 

It  plunges  stepwise  to  the  vale  below. 

To  stem  the  flood  what  boots  their  brave  en- 
deavor ? 

Them  from  the  mighty  flood  may  none  de- 
liver. 

Before  the  tumult  wild  myself  must  quail  ! 
Mephis.  Nothing  I see  of  all  these  watery 
lies ; 

They  bring  illusion  but  to  human  eyes ; 

With  joy  the  wondrous  change  I hail. 
Headlong  the  masses  pour,  a shining  throng  ; 
The  fools  imagine  they  will  soon  be  drown’d. 
And  while  they  snort  upon  the  solid  ground. 
Like  swimmers  laughably  they  move  along. 
Now  reigns  confusion  all  around. 

[ The  ravens  return. 

To  the  high  master  you  I will  commend. 
Yourselves,  would  ye  as  masters  prove — at- 
tend ; 

Straight  to  the  glowing  smithy  fare. 

To  the  dwarf-folk,  who  tireless  there 
Strike  sparks  from  metal  and  from  stone — 
With  them,  while  chattering,  desire 
A shining,  dazzling,  bursting  fire. 

As  to  man’s  highest  fancy  shown. 

True,  lightning-flashes  gleaming  from  afar. 
And,  swift  as  vision,  fall  of  loftiest  star. 

May  happen  every  summer  night ; 

But  flashes  amid  tangl’d  bushes  found. 

And  stars  that  hiss  upon  the  humid  ground — 
These  are  in  sooth,  no  common  sight : 

So  must  y^,  without  much  annoy. 

Entreaties  first,  and  then  commands,  employ. 
\_Exeiint  the  ravens.  All  happens  as  pre- 
scribed. 

Mephis.  Thick  darkness  o’er  the  foe  is 
spreading  ! 

They  in  uncertainty  are  treading  ! 

Deluding  flashes  everywhere ; 

Then  blindness,  from  the  sudden  glare  ! — 

All  that  has  wondrously  succeeded  ; 

But  now  some  terror-sound  is  needed. 

Faust.  The  hollow  weapons  from  the 
armories. 

Feel  themselves  stronger  in  the  open  breeze ; 
They  rattle  there  above,  and  clatter  on — 

A wonderful  discordant  tone. 

Mephis.  Quite  right.  They  can  be  rein’d 
no  more  ; 

As  in  the  gracious  times  of  yore, 

The  sound  of  knightly  blows  is  rife ; 

Armlets  and  leg-prote6Iing  gear. 

As  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  appear. 


167 


Swift  to  renew  the  eternal  strife  : 

Firm  in  transmitted  hate,  they  close, 

While  far  and  wide  resound  their  blows. 

The  rancor  ending  but  with  life. 

At  last,  in  every  devil’s  fete 
Most  potently  works  party  hate. 

Till  the  last  horror  closes  all ; 

Discordant  sounds  of  rout  and  panic. 

Between  whiles,  piercing,  shrill,  Satanic, 
Through  the  wide  valley  rise  and  fall. 

[ JVar  tumult  in  the  Orchestra,  passing  at 
last  into  cheerful  military  music. 


The  Rival  Emperor’s  Tent.  Throne, 
Rich  Surroundings. 

Havequick,  Speed-Booty. 

Speed-Booty.  So  here  the  first  we  are,  I see ! 
Havequick.  No  raven  flies  so  fast  as  we. 
Speed-Booty.  What  treasure-heaps  lie  here 
and  there ! 

Where  to  begin?  To  finish,  where? 

Havequick.  So  full  the  space.  I’m  hard  to 
please  : 

I know  not  what  I first  should  seize  ! 


Speed-Booty.  This  carpet  is  the  thing  for 
me, 

My  bed  is  apt  too  hard  to  be. 

Havequick.  Here  a steel  club  is  hanging, 
such. 

Long,  as  mine  own.  I’ve  wish’d  to  clutch. 
Speed-Booty.  The  mantle  red,  with  golden 
seams — 

I’ve  seen  its  fellow  in  my  dreams. 

Havequick.  ( Taking  the  weapon.) 

With  this  full  soon  the  work  is  done : 

One  strikes  him  dead,  and  passes  on. 

Much  hast  thou  pack’d,  yet,  for  thy  pains. 
Nothing  of  worth  thy  sack  contains  : 

This  plunder  in  its  place  may  rest. 

One  among  many,  take  this  chest ! 

The  host’s  appointed  pay  they  hold  ; 

Within  its  belly  is  pure  gold. 

Speed-Booty.  A murderous  weight  is  this! 

I may 

Nor  lift,  nor  carry  it  away. 

Havequick.  Duck  quickly  I Thou  must  , 
bend  ! I’ll  pack 
The  booty  on  thy  stalwart  back. 

Speed-Booty.  Alack!  alack!  ’Tis  all  in 
vain  ! 

The  load  will  break  my  back  in  twain. 

[ The  chest  falls,  and  springs  open. 
Havequick.  There  lies  of  ruddy  gold  a 
heap ; 

Be  quick,  the  prize  away  to  sweep  ! 

Speed-Booty.  (Stoops  dotvn.)  Now  fling  j 
it  in*my  lap  with  speed  ! j 

There’s  plenty  to  supply  our  need.  | 

Havequick.  Now  there’s  enough  ! Away  j 
then,  pack  ! \_She  rises. 

The  apron  has  a hole,  alack  ! 

Where  thou  dost  stand,  and  where  dost  go, 

The  treasure  lavishly  dost  sow. 

Halberdiers.  ( Of  our  Emperor.)  Sacred 
this  place  ! What  do  ye  here? 

Why  pillage  thus  the  Emperor’s  gear? 

Havequick.  Cheaply  we  sold  our  limbs,  I 
trow ! 

Our  share  of  spoil  we  gather  now. 

In  hostile  tents,  the  vigors’  due  ; 

And  we — why  we  are  soldiers  too. 

Halberdiers.  It  suits  not  in  our  ranks  to  be 
Soldier  at  once  and  thief.  For  he 
To  serve  our  Emperor  who  would  claim, 

Must  bear  an  honest  soldier’s  name  ! 

Havequick.  Such  honesty  we  know,  by 
you 

’Tis  Contribution  styl’d  ! Ye,  too, 

Upon  the  self-same  footing  live: 

The  password  of  your  trade  is — Give  ! 


(To  Speed-Booty.) 

Off  with  thy  prey,  right  speedily  ! 

For  here  no  welcome  guests  are  we. 

\_Exeunt. 

First  Halberdier.  Say,  wherefore  didst 
thou  not  bestow 

Upon  the  rascal’s  cheek  a blow? 

Second.  I know  not ; me  my  strength 
forsook ; 

So  phantom-like  to  me  their  look  ! 

Third.  Something  there  came  to  mar  my 
sight. 

It  glimmer’d — -I  saw  naught  aright. 

Fourth.  In  sooth,  I know  not  what  to 
say. 

So  hot  it  was  the  livelong  day  ! 

Fearful,  oppressive,  close,  as  well ; 

While  one  man  stood,  another  fell ; 

We  grop’d,  still  striking  at  the  foe ; 

Opponents  fell  at  every  blow — 

Floated  before  our  eyes  a mist ; 

Then  in  our  ear  it  buzz’d,  humm’d,  hiss’d. 

So  on  it  went — now  are  we  here ; 

The  manner  of  it  is  not  clear  ! 

\_Entcr  the  Emperor,  with  four  Princes. 
The  Halberdiers  retire. 

Emperor.  Be  with  him  as  it  may,  the  day 
is  ours.  Sore-batter’d, 

Over  the  level  plain  the  foe  in  flight  are  scat- 
ter’d. 

Here  stands  the  vacant  throne  ; with  tapestry 
hung  round. 

The  traitor’s  treasure  too  narrows  the  tented 
ground. 

By  our  own  guards  defended,  we  wait  with 
exultation. 

And  with  imperial  pomp,  the  envoys  of  each 
nation. 

Here  from  all  sides  arrive  glad  tidings  hour  by 
hour : 

The  realm  is  pacified,  and  gladly  owns  our 
power. 

Though  in  our  fight  perchance  some  magic 
arts  were  wrought. 

Yet  at  the  last,  ourselves — we,  only  we,  have 
fought. 

To  combatants,  in  sooth,  chance  still  may  work 
for  good — 

From  Heaven  falls  a stone,  on  foemen  it  rains 
blood  ; 

Strange  sounds  of  wondrous  power  from  rocky 
caves  may  flow. 

Which  lift  our  courage  high,  and  strike  with 
fear  the  foe. 

Objedl  of  lasting  scorn,  juostrate  the  van- 
quish’d lies, 

J 69 


While  to  the  favoring  God  the  vidlor’s  i)raises 
rise ; 

All  blend  with  him,  nor  need  that  he  should 
give  the  word — 

“ We  praise  Thee,  Lord  our  God  !”  from 
million  throats  is  heard. 

Yet  as  the  highest  praise,  my  own  breast  I’ll 
explore, 

Searching  with  pious  glance,  which  rarely 
happ’d  before. 

A young  and  joyous  prince,  of  time  may  waste 
the  dower : 

Him  years  will  teach,  at  last,  th’  importance 
of  the  hour. 

Hence  to  ally  myself  with  you,  most  worthy 
four. 

For  house,  and  court,  and  realm,  will  I delay 
no  more. 

( To  the  First,  j 

Thine  was,  O Prince,  the  wise  arrangement  of 
the  host. 

And  in  the  crisis  thou  heroic  skill  could’st 
boast ; 

Therefore  work  thou  as  may  with  times  of 
peace  accord. 

Arch-Marshal  name  I thee ; to  thee  I give  the 
sword. 

Arch-Marshal.  Thy  host,  within  the  realm 
till  now  employ’d  alone. 

Shall  on  the  border  guard  thy  person  and  thy 
throne. 

Then  be  it  ours,  when  crowds  make  glad  on 
festive  day 

Thy  large  ancestral  hall,  thy  banquet  to  array. 

I’ll  hold  it  at  thy  side,  or  bear  it  thee  before. 

Of  highest  majesty  the  escort  evermore. 

Emperor.  fTh ///<’ Second,  j With  valor 
who,  like  thee,  doth  courtesy  unite, 

Arch-Chamberlain  shall  be.  The  duties  are 
not  light. 

Of  all  the  house-retainers  chief  art  thou  ; them 
I find 

But  sorry  servants,  still  to  household  strife  in- 
clin’d : 

In  honor  held,  may  they,  from  thy  example, 
see 

How  they  to  prince,  to  court,  to  all,  may  gra- 
cious be. 

Arch-Chamberlain.  The  master’s  lofty 
thought  to  further,  bringeth  grace  ; 

Ever  to  aid  the  good,  nor  injure  e’en  the 
base, 

Frank,  without  guile  to  be,  and  calm  without 
disguise. 

That  thou  should’st  know  me.  Sire,  this  boon 
alone  I prize. 


Dare  fancy  to  that  feast  press  on  with  pinions 
bold — 

Thou  goest  to  the  board,  I reach  the  ewer  o.f 

gyltl, 

Thy  rings  I take,  that  while  joy  reigneth  and 
delight. 

Thy  hand  may  be  refresh’d,  while  gladdens 
me  thy  light. 

Emperor.  Too  earnest  feel  I now  to  think 
of  joyous  fest ; 

Yet  be  it  so — a glad  commencement  still  is 
best ! 

( To  the  Third,  j 

Arch-Steward  thee  I choose.  Therefore  hence- 
forth to  thee 

The  chase,  the  poultry-yard,  the  farm  shall 
subjedl  be. 

Choice  of  my  favorite  dishes  still  for  me  pre- 
pare. 

As  them  the  month  brings  round,  and  dress’d 
with  proper  care. 

Arch-Steward.  Stridl  fasting  be  for  me 
the  duty  that  I boast. 

Until  before  thee  plac’d  the  dish  to  please  thee 
most : 

The  kitchen-service  shall  with  me  co-operate. 

The  far  to  bring  anear,  seasons  to  ante-date. 

Thee  charm  not  viands  rare,  wherewith  thy 
board  is  grac’d ; 

Simple  and  racy  food,  thereto  inclines  thy  taste. 

Emperor.  Fourth,  j Since  festivals 

jjerforce  alone  engage  us  now, 

To  Cupbearer  transform’d,  young  hero,  straight 
be  thou  ! 

Arch-Cupbearer,  henceforth  the  duty  shall  be 
thine 

To  see  our  cellars  stor’d  richly  with  generous 
wine. 

Be  temperate  thyself ; be  not  misled  through 
mirth. 

Howe’er  allurements  tempt,  to  which  the  hour 
gives  birth  ! 

Arch-Cupbearer.  Your  highness,  youth 
itself,  if  trust  therein  be  shown. 

Stands,  ere  one  looks  around,  to  man’s  full 
stature  grown. 

Myself  I too  transport  to  that  great  festive  day: 

The  imperial  sideboard  then  right  nobly  I’ll 
array ; 

Of  gold  and  silver  there  shall  splendid  vessels 
shine. 

Yet  first  the  loveliest  cup  will  I seledl  as 
thine — 

A clear  Venetian  glass,  wherein  joy  lurking 
waits : 

The  flavor  it  improves,  yet  ne’er  inebriates. 


In  such  a wondrous  cup  too  great  our  trust 
may  be ; 

Thy  moderation,  Sire,  still  more  protedteth 
thee. 

Emperor.  What,  in  this  solemn  hour,  I 
have  conferr’d  on  you. 

Receive  with  confidence,  from  valid  lips  and 
true ; 

Great  is  the  Emperor’s  word,  and  every  gift 
makes  sure. 

For  confirmation  yet  there  needs  his  signature. 

This  duty  to  prepare,  and  royal  writ  thereto. 

The  fitting  man  appears,  at  the  fit  moment  too. 

\^The  Archbishop  and  Arch-Chancellor 
enter. 


If  to  the  keystone  trusts  its  weight  the  vaulted 
arch. 

Securely  built  it  then  defies  time’s  onward 
march. 

Thou  seest  four  princes  here.  E’en  now  we 
have  decided 

How  governance  shall  be  for  house  and  court 
provided. 

What  the  whole  realm  concerns,  be  that  with 
weight  and  power. 

To  you,  ye  princes  five,  entrusted  from  this 
hour. 

In  landed  wealth  ye  shall  all  others  far  excel ; 

Hence,  with  their  heritage  who  from  our 
standard  fell. 


171 


The  bounds  of  your  possessions  I forthwith  ex-  I 
pand  : 

Ye  faithful  ones,  be  yours  full  many  a goodly 
land, 

Also  the  lofty  right,  should  time  the  occasion 
send. 

Through  purchase,  chance,  exchange,  their 
limits  to  extend  ; 

To  practise  undisturb’d,  this  is  secur’d  to  you. 

What  sovereign  rights  soe’er,  as  landlords,  are 
your  due ; 

As  judges,  be  it  yours  to  speak  the  final  doom, — 

From  your  high  stations  none  will  to  appeal 
presume. 

Then  tribute,  tax,  and  tithe,  safe-condu6l,  toll, 
and  fee. 

Mine-salt,  and  coinage-dues,  your  property 
shall  be. 

That  thus  my  gratitude  may  validly  be  shown. 

In  rank  I you  have  rais’d  next  the  Imperial 
throne. 

Archbishop.  In  name  of  all  be  given  our 
deepest  thanks  to  thee  ! 

Us  mak’st  thou  strong  and  firm, — thy  power 
shall  strengthen’d  be. 

Emperor.  Yet  higlier  dignities  I to  you 
five  will  give. 

Still  live  I for  my  realm,  and  still  rejoica  to 
live ; 

Nathless  of  my  great  sires  the  chain  withdraws 
my  gaze. 

From  keen  endeavor  back,  the  coming  doom 
to  face : 

I also,  in  His  time,  must  bid  my  friends 
adieu ; 

The  emperor  to  name  shall  then  belong  to  you. 

On  the  high  altar  rais’d,  crown  ye  his  sacred 
brow. 

And  peacefully  shall  end,  what  storm ful  was 
e’en  now  ! 

Arch-Chancellor.  With  pride  in  their 
deep  breasts,  with  lowly  gestures,  stand 

Princes,  before  thee  bow’d,  the  foremost  of 
the  land. 

So  long  as  in  our  veins  the  faithful  current 
plays. 

The  body  we,  which  still  thy  lightest  impulse 
sways  ! 

Emperor.  And,  to  conclude,  what  we  to- 
day have  done,  made  sure. 

Shall  be  henceforth  for  aye,  by  writ  and  signa- 
ture ; 

Ye  hold  indeed  as  lords,  possession,  full  and 
free. 

Yet  on  these  terms — that  it  partition’d  ne’er 
shall  be. 


And  howsoe’er  increas’d,  what  ye  from  us  re- 
ceive 

Ye  to  your  eldest  son  shall  undivided  leave. 

Arch-Chancellor.  For  our  weal  and  the 
realm’s,  to  jiarchment  will  I straight. 

With  joyful  mind,  confide  a statute  of  such 
weight ; 

The  Chancery  shall  seal  and  document  pro- 
cure. 

Then  shall  confirm  it.  Sire,  thy  sacred  signa- 
ture ! 

Emperor.  And  so  I you  dismiss,  that  on 
this  glorious  day. 

In  solemn  conclave  met,  deliberate  ye  may. 

\^TJie  temporal  lords  retire.  The  Arch- 
bishop remains,  and  speaks  in  a patiutic 
tone. 

Archbishop.  The  chancellor  is  gone  ; the 
bishop  doth  remain. 

His  father’s  heart  for  thee  trembles  with  anx- 
ious pain  : 

Him  a deep  warning  soul  impels  thine  ear  to 
seek. 

Emperor.  What  in  this  joyous  hour  is  thy 
misgiving?  Speak! 

Archbishop.  With  what  a bitter  pang  find 
I,  in  such  an  hour. 

Thy  consecrated  head  in  league  with  Satan’s 
power  I 

Confirm’d  upon  thy  throne,  as  it  appeareth, — 
true  ; 

But  in  despite  of  God,  and  Eather  Pontiff 
too  ! 

Hearing  of  this,  forthwith,  will  he  pronounce 
thy  doom ; 

With  sacred  fire  thy  realm,  accurs’d,  will  he 
consume ; 

Eor  he  forgets  not  how,  the  day  when  thou 
wast  crown’d. 

E’en  at  that  hour  supreme,  the  sorcerer  hast 
unbound ; 

To  Christendom’s  foul  shame,  on  that  accursed 
head. 

From  out  thy  diadem,  mercy’s  first  beam  was 
shed. 

Now  smite  upon  thy  breast,  and  from  thy  guilty 
prey 

Back  to  our  holy  church  some  little  share  repay. 

The  broad  hill-space  whereon  thy  tent  did 
lately  stand. 

Where,  thee  to  aid,  themselves  did  evil  spirits 
band. 

There,  where  the  Prince  of  Lies  did  late  thine 
ears  abuse. 

Taught  piously,  that  spot  devote  to  pious 

I use, — 


172 


With  mountains  and  thick  wood,  so  far  as  they 
extend, 

With  verdant  slopes  which  yield  rich  pasture, 
without  end  ; 

Clear  lakes,  alive  with  fish,  unnumber’d  brooks 
that  flow. 

With  swift  and  snakelike  course,  down  to  the 
vale  below ; 

Then  the  broad  vale  itself,  with  meadow, 
hollow,  plain — 

Let  thy  repentance  speak,  and  mercy  thou’ It 
obtain  ! 

Emperor.  For  this,  my  grievous  fault, 
terror  so  fills  my  mind. 

By  thine  own  measure  be  the  bounds  by  thee 
assign’d. 

Archbishop.  First  shall  the  space  defil’d, 
by  sin  so  desecrated. 

To  service  of  the  Highest  straight  be  conse- 
crated ! 

Swift,  to  the  spirit-eye,  the  massive  walls 
aspire. 

The  morning  sun’s  first  beam  already  gilds  the 
choir ; 

Crosswise  the  strudlure  grows,  the  nave,  in 
length  and  height 

Expanding,  straightway  fills  believers  with  de- 
light. 

Through  the  wide  portal  now,  they  throng 
with  ardent  zeal. 

While  over  hill  and  vale  resounds  the  bells’ 
first  peal — 

From  lofty  towers  they  ring,  which  heaven- 
ward strive  amain. 

The  penitent  draws  near,  there  to  be  born 
again. 

On  consecration  day — that  day  soon  may  we 
see  ! — 

The  highest  ornament  shall  then  thy  pres- 
ence be. 

Emperor.  And  be  my  pious  wish,  through 
work  so  great  made  known. 

The  Lord  our  God  to  praise,  and  for  my  sin 
atone  ! 

Enough ! Already  rais’d  my  spirit  now  I 
feel. 


Archbishop.  As  chancellor,  I claim  both 
covenant  and  seal. 

Emperor.  A deed  which  to  the  church 
shall  all  these  rights  secure — 

Bring  it,  I will  with  joy  affix  my  signature. 

Archbishop,  f Takes  leave,  but  turns  back 
again  at  tke  door.)  Thou,  as  the  work 
proceeds,  to  it  must  dedicate 

The  land’s  colledtive  dues — tribute,  and  tithe, 
and  rate — 

Forever.  Ample  wealth  for  due  support  we 
need. 

And  careful  governance  still  heavy  costs  doth 
breed. 

For  swift  eredtion  too,  on  spot  so  waste,  some 
gold, 

From  thy  rich  plunder^  thou  from  us  wilt  not 
wi  thhold. 

Moreover,  we  shall  want — this  I cannot  dis- 
guise— 

Timber,  and  lime,  and  slate,  and  such  far-off 
supplies ; 

Taught  from  the  pulpit,  these  the  willing 
people  bears : 

The  church  still  blesses  him,  who  for  her  ser- 
vice cares.  \^Exit. 

Emperor.  Heavy  and  sore  the  sin  whose 
burden  I bewail  ! 

Those  odious  sorcerers  have  wrought  me  griev- 
ous bale  ! 

Archbishop.  ( Returning  once  7nore  with 
profound  obeisance.)  Pardon,  O Sire, 
thou  hast  to  that  unworthy  man 

The  realm’s  seashore  convey’d  ; yet  him  shall 
smite  the  ban. 

Unless  with  tithe  and  dues,  with  rent  and 
taxes,  thou. 

Repentant,  also  there  our  holy  church  endow. 

Emperor.  ( With  ill-humor.)  The  land  is 
not  yet  there  ; broad  in  the  sea  it  lies. 

Archbishop.  For  him  the  time  will  come 
who  potent  is  and  wise. 

For  us  still  may  your  word  in  its  full  powers 
remain.  \_Exit. 

Emperor.  (Alone.)  So  may  I sign  away 
the  realm  o’er  which  I reign  ! 


173 


ACT  V. 


Open  Country. 

Wanderer.  Yes,  ’tis  they,  their  branches 
rearing. 

Hoary  lindens,  strong  in  age; — 

'I'here  I find  them,  reappearing. 

After  ni)'  long  pilgrimage  ! 

’Tis  the  very  spot ; — how  gladly 
Yonder  hut  once  more  I see, 

By  the  billows  raging  madly. 

Cast  ashore,  which  shelter’d  me  ! 

My  old  hosts,  I fain  would  greet  them. 
Helpful  they,  an  honest  pair ; 

May  I hope  to-day  to  meet  them  ? 

Even  then  they  aged  were. 

W’orthy  folk,  in  God  believing ! 

Shall  I knock?  or  raise  my  voice? 

Hail  to  you  if,  guest  receiving. 

In  good  deeds  ye  still  rejoice  ! 

Baucis.  (A  very  aged  woman.)  Stranger 
dear,  beware  of  breaking 
My  dear  husband’s  sweet  repose! 

Strength  for  brief  and  feeble  waking 
Lengthen’d  sleep  on  age  bestows. 
Wanderer.  Mother,  say  then,  do  I find  thee. 
To  receive  my  thanks  once  more. 

In  my  youth  who  didst  so  kindly. 

With  thy  spouse,  my  life  restore? 

Baucis,  to  my  lips  half-dying. 

Art  thou,  who  refreshment  gave? 

\_Tfie  husband  steps  forth. 


Thou  Philemon,  strength  who  plying. 
Snatch’d  my  treasure  from  the  wave? 

By  your  flames,  so  promptly  kindl’d. 

By  your  bell’s  clear  silver  sound — 

That  adventure,  horror-mingl’d. 

Hath  a happy  issue  found. 

Forward  let  me  step,  and  gazing 
P'orth  upon  the  boundless  main. 

Kneel,  and  thankful  prayers  u])raising. 

Ease  of  my  full  heart  the  strain  ! 

\^He  walks  forward  upon  the  downs. 
Philemon.  (7h  Baucis.)  Haste  to  spread 
the  table,  under 
The  green  leafage  of  our  trees. 

Let  him  run,  struck  dumb  with  wonder. 
Scarce  he’ll  credit  what  he  sees. 

[//(?  follows  the  wanderer.  Standing  beside 
him. 

Where  the  billows  did  maltreat  you. 

Wave  on  wave  in  fury  roll’d. 

There  a garden  now  doth  greet  you, 

Fair  as  Paradise  of  old. 

Grown  more  aged,  as  when  stronger, 

I could  render  aid  no  more ; 

And,  as  wan’d  my  strength,  no  longer 
Roll’d  the  sea  upon  tlie  shore : 

Prudent  lords,  bold  serfs  diredting. 

It  with  trench  and  dyke  restrain’d  ; 

Ocean’s  rights  no  more  respedting. 

Lords  they  were,  where  he  had  reign’d. 

See,  green  meadows  far  extending  ; — 


174 


FiUist.  Second  Part. 


Garden,  village,  woodland,  plain. 
But  return  we,  homeward  wending. 
For  the  sun  begins  to  wane. 

In  the  distance  sails  are  gliding. 
Nightly  they  to  port  repair ; 
Bird-like,  in  their  nests  confiding. 
For  a haven  waits  them  there. 

Far  away  mine  eye  discerneth 
First  the  blue  fringe  of  the  main; 
Right  and  left,  where’er  it  turneth 
Spreads  the  thickly-peopl’d  plain. 


In  the  Garden.  The  Three  at  Tabi.e. 

Baucis.  f To  the  stranger.)  Art  th.ou 
dumb  ? No  morsel  raising 
To  thy  famish’d  lips? 

Philemon.  I trow. 

He  of  wonders  so  amazing 

Fain  would  hear;  inform  him  thou. 

Baucis.  There  was  wrought  a wonder 
truly, 

Yet  no  rest  it  leaves  to  me  ; 

Naught  in  the  affair  was  duly 
Done,  as  honest  things  should  be  ! 

Philemon.  Who  as  sinful  can  prcwiounce 
it  ? 

’Twas  the  emperor  gave  the  shore  ; — 

Did  the  trumpet  not  announce  it 
As  the  herald  pass’d  our  door? 

Footing  firm  they  first  have  planted 
Near  these  downs.  Tents,  huts,  appear’d  ; 
O’er  the  green,  the  eye,  enchanted. 

Saw  ere  long  a palace  rear’d. 

Baucis.  Shovel,  axe,  no  labor  sparing, 
Vainly  pil’d  the  men  by  day ; 

Where  the  fires  at  night  shone  flaring, 

Stood  a dam,  in  morning’s  ray. 

Still  from  human  viiflims  bleeding. 

Wailing  sounds  were  nightly  borne  ; 

Seaward  sped  the  flames,  receding  ; 

A canal  ajipear’d  at  morn  ! 

Godless  is  he,  naught  respedling  ; 

Covets  he  our  grove,  our  cot  ; 

Though  our  neighbor,  us  subjedling. 

Him  to  serve  will  be  our  lot. 

Philemon.  Yet  he  bids,  our  claims  adjust- 
ing, 

Homestead  fair  in  his  new  land. 

Baucis.  Earth,  from  water  sav’d,  mistrust- 
ing, 

On  thine  own  height  take  thy  stand. 

Philemon.  Let  us,  to  the  chapel  wending, 
Watch  the  sun’s  last  rays  subside  ; 


Let  us  ring,  and  prayerful  bending. 
In  our  fathers’  God  confide  ! 


Palace. 

\Spacions  ornamental  garden  ; broad,  straight 
canal.  Faust  in  extreme  old  age,  walking 
about,  meditating. 

Lynceus,  the  Warder.  ( Through  a speak- 
ing-trumpet.) The  sun  sinks  down,  tlie 
ships  belated 

Rejoicing  to  the  haven  steer. 

A stately  galley,  deeply  freighted. 

On  the  canal,  now  draweth  near ; 

Her  chequer’d  flag  the  breeze  caresses. 

The  masts  unbending  bear  the  sails ; 

'I'hee  now  the  grateful  seaman  blesses. 

Thee  at  this  moment  Fortune  hails. 

\^The  bell  rings  on  the  downs. 
Faust.  (Starting.)  Accursed  bell!  Its 
clamor  sending. 

Like  spiteful  shot  it  wounds  mine  ear  ! 

Before  me  lies  my  realm  unending  ; 

Vexation  dogs  me  in  the  rear ; 

For  I,  these  envious  chimes  still  hearing, 

Must  at  my  narrow  bounds  repine  ; 

The  linden  grove,  brown  hut  thence  peering. 
The  moldering  church,  these  are  not  mine. 
Refreshment  seek  I,  there  repairing? 
Another’s  shadow  chills  my  heart, 

A thorn,  nor  foot  nor  vision  sparing, — 

O far  from  hence  could  I depart  1 

Warder.  (As  above.)  How,  wafted  by 
the  evening  gales. 

Blithely  the  painted  galley  sails  ; 

On  its  swift  course,  how  richly  stor’d  I 
Chest,  coffer,  sack,  are  heap’d  aboard. 


A Splendid  Galley. 

Richly  and  brilliantly  laden  with  the  produce 
of  foreign  clinics. 

Mephistopheles.  The  Three  Mighty 
Comrades. 

Chorus.  Here  do  we  land. 

Here  are  we  now. 

Hail  to  our  lord  ; 

Our  patron,  thou  ! 

[ They  disembark.  The  goods  are  taken  ashore. 
Mephis.  So  haYe  we  prov’d  our  worth- - 
content 

If  we  our  patron’s  praises  earn: 

With  but  two  ships  abroad  we  went. 

With  twenty  we  to  port  return. 


175 


By  our  rich  lading  all  may  see 
The  great  successes  we  have  wrought. 

Free  ocean  makes  the  spirit  free  : 

There  claims  compundlion  ne’er  a thought ! 

A rapid  grip  there  needs  alone  ; 

A fish,  a ship,  on  both  we  seize. 

Of  three  if  we  the  lordship  own. 

Straightway  we  hook  a fourth  with  ease. 

Then  is  the  fifth  in  sorry  plight — 

Who  hath  the  power, Jias  still  the  right; 

The  is  ask’d  for,  not  the  How. 

Else  know  I not  the  seaman’s  art : 

War,  commerce,  piracy,  I trow, 

A trinity,  we  may  not  part. 

The  Three  Mighty  Comrades.  No  thank 
and  hail  ; 

No  hail  and  thank  ! 

As  were  our  cargo 
Vile  and  rank  ! 

Disgust  upon 
His  face  one  sees  ; 

The  kingly  wealth 
Doth  him  displease  ! 

Mephis.  Expedt  ye  now 
No  further  pay ; 

For  ye  your  share 
Have  ta’en  away. 

The  Three  Mighty  Comrades.  To  pass 
the  time. 

As  was  but  fair ; 

We  all  expedl 
An  equal  share. 

Mephis.  First  range  in  order. 

Hall  on  hall. 

These  wares  so  costly. 

One  and  all ! 

And  when  he  steps 
The  prize  to  view. 

And  reckons  all 
With  judgment  true. 

He’ll  be  no  niggard  ; 

As  is  meet. 

Feast  after  feast 
He’ll  give  the  fleet. 

The  gay  birds  come  with  morning 
tide  ; 

Myself  for  them  can  best  provide. 

[ The  cargo  is  removed. 
Mephis.  ( To  Faust.  J With  gloomy  look, 
with  earnest  brow 
Thy  fortune  high  receivest  thou. 

Thy  lofty  wisdom  has  been  crown’d  ; 

Their  limits  shore  and  sea  have  found  ; 

Forth  from  the  shore,  in  swift  career. 

O’er  the  glad  waves,  thy  vessels  steer ; 


Speak  only  from  thy  pride  of  place. 

Thine  arm  the  whole  world  doth  embrace. 
Here  it  began  ; on  this  spot  stood 
Tlie  first  rude  cabin  form’d  of  wood; 

A little  ditch  was  sunk  of  yore 
Where  plashes  now  the  busy  oar. 

Thy  lofty  thought,  thy  people’s  hand. 

Have  won  the  prize  from  sea  and  land. 

From  here  too — 

Faust.  That  accursed  here  ! 

It  weighs  upon  me  ! Lend  thine  ear  ; — 

To  thine  experience  I must  tell. 

With  thrust  on  thrust,  what  wounds  my  heart ; 
To  bear  it  is  impossible — 

Nor  can  I,  without  shame,  impart : 

'I'he  old  folk  there  above  must  yield  ; 

Would  that  my  seat  those  lindens  were ; 

Those  few  trees  not  mine  own,  that  field. 
Possession  of  the  world  impair. 

I'here  I,  wide  view  o’er  all  to  take. 

From  bough  to  bough  would  scaffolds  raise ; 
Would,  for  the  prospedl,  vistas  make. 

On  all  that  I have  done  to  gaze ; 

'I'o  see  at  once  before  me  brought 
The  masterwork  of  human  thought. 

Where  wisdom  hath  achiev’d  the  plan. 

And  won  broad  dwelling-place  for  man. — 
Thus  are  we  tortur’d  ; — in  our  weal, 

That  which  we  lack,  we  sorely  feel ! 

The  chime,  the  scent  of  linden  bloom. 
Surround  me  like  a vaulted  tomb. 

I'he  will  that  nothing  could  withstand. 

Is  broken  here  upon  the  sand  : 

How  from  the  vexing  thought  be  safe  ? 

The  bell  is  pealing,  and  I chafe  ! 

Mephis.  Such  spiteful  chance,  ’tis  natural. 
Must  thy  existence  fill  with  gall. 

Who  doubts  it ! To  each  noble  ear. 

This  clanging  odious  must  appear; 

This  cursed  ding-dong,  booming  loud. 

The  cheerful  evening  sky  doth  shroud; 

With  each  event  of  life  it  blends. 

From  birth  to  burial  it  attends. 

Until  this  mortal  life  doth  seem, 

Twixt  ding  and  dong,  a vanish’d  dream  ! 

Faust.  Resistance,  stubborn  selfishness. 
Can  trouble  lordliest  success. 

Till,  in  deep  angry  pain  one  must 
Grow  tired  at  last  of  being  first ! 

Mephis.  Why  let  thyself  be  troubl’d 
here  ? 

Is  colonizing  not  thy  sphere  ? 

Faust.  Then  go,  to  move  them  be  thy 
care  ! 

Thou  knowest  well  the  homestead  fair. 

I’ve  chosen  for  the  aged  pair — 


1 76 


Mephis.  We’ll  bear  them  off,  and  on  new 
ground 

Set  them,  ere  one  can  look  around. 

'I'he  violence  outliv’d  and  past. 

Shall  a fair  home  atone  at  last. 

\^He  whistles  shrilly. 

The  Three  enter. 

Mephis.  Come  ! straight  fulfil  the  lord’s 
behest ; 

The  fleet  to-morrow  he  will  feast. 

The  Three.  The  old  lord  us  did  ill  re- 
quite ; 

A sumptuous  feast  is  ours  by  right. 

Mephis.  (To  the  spe&ators.)  What  happ’d 
of  old,  here  happens  too  : 

Still  Naboth’s  vineyard  meets  the  view. 

[i  Kings  xvi. 


Deep  Night. 

Lynceus,  the  Warder.  ( On  the  watch- 
tower,  singing. ) Keen  vision  my  birth- 
dower. 

I’m  plac’d  on  this  height. 

Still  sworn  to  the  watch-tower. 

The  world’s  my  delight. 

I gaze  on  the  distant, 

I look  on  the  near, 

On  moon  and  on  planet, 

On  wood  and  the  deer ; 

The  beauty  eternal 
In  all  things  I see ; 

And  pleas’d  with  myself 
All  bring  pleasure  to  me. 

Glad  eyes,  look  around  ye 
And  gaze,  for  whate’er 
The  sight  they  encounter. 

It  still  hath  been  fair  ! \^Pause. 

Not  alone  for  pleasure-taking 
Am  I planted  thus  on  high  ; 

What  dire  vision,  horror-waking. 

From  yon  dark  world  scares  mine  eye  ! 
Fiery  sparkles  see  I gleaming 
Through  the  lindens’  twofold  night ; 

By  the  breezes  fann’d,  their  beaming 
Gloweth  now  with  fiercer  light  ! 

Ah  ! the  peaceful  hut  is  burning  ; 

Stood  its  moss-grown  walls  for  years ; 

They  for  speedy  help  are  yearning — 

And  no  rescue,  none  appears  ! 

Ah,  the  aged  folk,  so  kindly. 

Once  so  careful  of  the  fire, 


Now,  to  smoke  a prey,  they  blindly 
Perish,  oh,  misfortune  dire  ! 

’Mid  red  flames,  the  vision  dazing. 

Stands  the  moss-hut,  black  and  bare  ; 

From  the  hell,  so  fiercely  blazing. 

Could  we  save  the  honest  pair  ! 
Lightning-like  the  fire  .advances, 

’Mid  the  foliage,  ’mid  the  branches  ; 
Wither’d  boughs, — they  flicker,  burning. 
Swiftly  glow,  then  fall ; — ah,  me  ! 

Must  mine  eyes,  this  woe  discerning. 

Must  they  so  far-sighted  be  ! 

Down  the  lowly  chapel  crashes 
’Neath  the  branches’  fall  and  weight; 
Winding  now,  the  pointed  flashes 
To  the  summit  climb  elate. 

Roots  and  trunks  the  flames  have  blighted  ; 
Hollow,  purple-red,  they  glow  ! 

\_Lo7tg  pause.  Song. 

Gone,  what  once  the  eye  delighted. 

With  the  ages  long  ago  ! 

Faust.  ( Onthe  balcony,  towards  the  downs.) 
From  above  what  plaintive  whimper  ? 

Word  and  tone  are  here  too  late  ! 

Wails  my  warder  ; me,  in  spirit 
Grieves  this  deed  precipitate  ! 

Though  in  ruin  unexpected 
Charr’d  now  lie  the  lindens  old. 

Soon  a height  will  be  ereCled, 

Whence  the  boundless  to  behold. 

I the  home  shall  see,  enfolding 
In  its  walls,  that  ancient  pair, 

Who,  my  gracious  care  beholding. 

Shall  their  lives  end  joyful  there. 

Mephis.  and  The  Three.  (Below.) 
Hither  we  come  full  speed.  We  crave 
Your  pardon  ! Things  have  not  gone  right ! 
Full  many  a knock  and  kick  we  gave. 

They  open’d  not,  in  our  despite; 

Then  rattl’d  we  and  kick’d  the  more. 

And  prostrate  lay  the  rotten  door ; 

We  call’d  aloud  with  threat  severe. 

Yet  sooth  we  found  no  listening  ear. 

And  as  in  such  case  still  befalls. 

They  heard  not,  would  not  hear  our  calls ; 
Forthwith  thy  mandate  we  obey’d. 

And  straight  for  thee  a clearance  made. 

The  pair — their  sufferings  were  light. 

Fainting  they  sank,  and  died  of  fright. 

A stranger,  harbor’d  there,  made  show 
Of  force,  full  soon  was  he  laid  low ; 

In  the  brief  space  of  this  wild  fray. 

From  coals,  that  strewn  around  us  lay. 

The  straw  caught  fire  ; ’tis  blazing  free. 

As  funeral  death-pyre  for  the  three. 


177 


Faust.  To  mycommandmentsdeaf  were  ye  ! 
Exchange  I wish’d,  not  robbery. 

For  this  your  wild  and  ruthless  part ; — 

I curse  it ! Share  it  and  depart ! 

Chorus.  The  ancient  saw  still  rings  to-day: 
Force  with  a willing  mind  obey ; 

If  boldly  thou  canst  stand  the  test, 

Stake  house,  court,  life,  and  all  the  rest ! 

\^Exeimt. 

Faust.  The  stars  their  glance  and  radiance 
veil ; 

Smoulders  the  sinking  fire,  a gale 
Fans  it  with  moisture-laden  wings. 

Vapor  to  me  and  smoke  it  brings. 

Rash  mandate — rashly  too  obey’d  ! — 

What  hither  sweeps  like  spedtral  shade  ? 


Midnight.  Four  gray  women  enter. 

First.  My  name,  it  is  Want. 

Second.  And  mine,  it  is  Blame. 

Third.  My  name,  it  is  Care. 

Fourth.  Need,  that  is  my  name. 

Three.  (Together.)  The  door  is  fast- 
bolted,  we  cannot  get  in  ; 

The  owner  is  wealthy,  we  may  not  within. 

Want.  There  fade  I to  shadow. 

Blame.  There  cease  I to  be. 

Need.  His  visage  the  pamper’d  still  turneth 
from  me. 

Care.  Ye  sisters,  ye  cannot,  ye  dare  not 
go  in  ; 

But  Care  through  the  keyhole  an  entrance 
may  win.  [Care  disappears. 

Want.  Sisters,  gray  sisters,  away  let  us  glide  ! 

Blame.  I bind  myself  to  thee,  quite  close 
to  thy  side. 


* Noth  and  Tod,  ihe  German  equivalents  for  Need 
and  Death,  form  a rhyme.  As  this  cannot  be  rendered 
in  English,  I have  introduced  a slight  alteration  into 
my  translation. 


Need.  And  Need  at  your  heels  doth  with 
yours  blend  her  breath.* 

T'he  Three.  Fast  gather  the  clouds,  they 
eclipse  star  on  star. 

Behind  there,  behind,  from  afar,  from  afar. 
There  comes  he,  our  brother,  there  cometh 
he — Death. 

Faust.  (In  the  palace.)  Four  saw  I come, 
but  only  three  went  hence. 

Of  their  discourse  I could  not  catch  the  sense; 
There  fell  upon  mine  ear  a sound  like  breath. 
Thereon  a gloomy  rhyme-word  follow’d — 
Death  ; 

Hollow  the  sound,  with  spedtral  horror  fraught! 
Not  yet  have  I,  in  sooth,  my  freedom  wrought; 
Could  I my  pathway  but  from  magic  free. 

And  quite  unlearn  the  spells  of  sorcery. 

Stood  I,  oh,  nature,  man  alone  ’fore  thee. 
Then  were  it  worth  the  trouble  man  to  be  1 
Such  was  I once,  ere  I in  darkness  sought. 
And  curses  dire,  through  words  with  error 
fraught. 


178 


Upon  myself  and  on  the  world  have  brought; 
So  teems  the  air  with  falsehood’s  juggling 
brood, 

That  no  one  knows  how  them,  he  may  elude  ! 
If  but  one  day  shines  dear,  in  reason’s  light — 
In  spedral  dream  envelops  us  the  night ; 

From  the  fresh  fields,  as  homeward  we  ad- 
vance— 

There  croaks  a bird  : what  croaks  he  ? some 
mischance  ! 

Ensnar’d  by  superstition,  soon  and  late  ; 

As  sign  and  portent,  it  on  us  doth  wait — 

By  fear  unmann’d,  we  take  our  stand  alone  ; 
The  portal  creaks,  and  no  one  enters, — none. 

( Agitated. ) 

Is  some  one  here  ? 

Care.  The  question  prompteth,  yes  ! 

Faust.  What  art  thou  then  ? 

Care.  Here,  once  for  all,  am  I. 

Faust.  Withdraw  thyself ! 

Care.  My  proper  place  is  this. 

Faust.  ( First  angry,  then  appeased. 

Aside.)  Take  heed,  and  speak  no  word 
of  sorcery. 

Care.  Though  by  outward  ear  unheard. 
By  my  moan  the  heart  is  stirr’d  ; 

And  in  ever-changeful  guise. 

Cruel  force  I exercise  ; 

On  the  shore  and  on  the  sea. 

Comrade  dire  hath  man  in  me,  • 

Fiver  found,  though  never  sought. 
Flatter’d,  curs’d,  so  have  I wrought. 

Hast  thou  as  yet  Care  never  known  ? 

Faust.  I have  but  hurried  through  the 
world,  I own. 

I by  the  hair  each  pleasure  seiz’d  ; 
Relinquish’d  what  no  longer  pleas’d. 

That  which  escap’d  me  I let  go, 

I’ve  crav’d,  accomplish’d,  and  then  crav’d 
again  ; 

Thus  through  my  life  I’ve  storm’d — -with  might 
and  main. 

Grandly,  with  power,  at  first ; but  now,  indeed. 
It  goes  more  cautiously,  with  wiser  heed. 

I know  enough  of  earth,  enough  of  men  ; 
d'he  view  beyond  is  barr’d  from  mortal  ken  ; 
Fool,  who  would  yonder  peer  with  blinking 
eyes. 

And  of  his  fellows  dream  above  the  skies  ! 
Firm  let  him  stand,  the  |)rospe6t  round  him 
scan. 

Not  mute  the  world  to  the  true-hearted  man. 
Why  need  he  wander  through  eternity  ? 

What  he  can  grasj),  that  only  knoweth  he. 

So  let  him  roam  adown  earth’s  fleeting  day, 

If  spirits  haunt,  let  him  pursue  his  way  ; 


In  joy  or  torment  ever  onward  stride. 

Though  every  moment  still  unsatisfied  ! 

Care.  To  him  whom  I have  made  mine 
own 

All  profitless  the  world  hath  grown  : 
Eternal  gloom  around  him  lies  ; 

For  him  suns  neither  set  nor  rise  ; 

With  outward  senses  perfedt,  whole. 
Dwell  darknesses  within  his  soul ; 

Though  wealth  he  owneth,  ne’ertheless 
He  nothing  truly  can  possess. 

Weal,  woe,  become  mere  phantasy  ; 

He  hungers  ’mid  satiety; 

Be  it  joy,  or  be  it  sorrow. 

He  postpones  it  till  the  morrow ; 

Of  the  future  thinking  ever. 

Prompt  for  present  adtion  never. 

Faust.  Forbear ! Thou  shalt  not  come 
near  me  ! 

I will  not  hear  such  folly.  Hence  ! 

Avaunt ! This  evil  litany 

The  wisest  even  might  bereave  of  sense. 

Care.  Shall  he  come  or  go  ? He  pon- 
ders ; — 

All  resolve  from  him  is  taken  ; 

On  the  beaten  path  he  wanders. 

Groping  on,  as  if  forsaken. 

Deeper  still  himself  he  loses. 

Everything  his  sight  abuses. 

Both  himself  and  others  hating. 

Taking  breath — and  suffocating. 

Without  life — yet  scarcely  dying. 

Not  despairing — not  relying. 

Rolling  on  without  remission  : 

Loathsome  ought,  and  sad  permission. 
Now  deliverance,  now  vexation. 
Semi-sleep, — poor  recreation. 

Nail  him  to  his  place  and  wear  him. 

And  at  last  for  hell  prepare  him. 

Faust.  Unblessed  spedl res ! Ye  mankind 
have  so 

Treated  a thousand  times,  their  thoughts  de- 
ranging ; 

E’en  uneventful  days  to  mar  ye  know. 

Into  a tangl’d  web  of  torment  changing! 

’Tis  hard,  I know,  from  demons  to  get  free. 
The  mighty  spirit-bond  by  force  untying  ; 

Yet  Care,  I never  will  acknowledge  thee. 

Thy  strong  increeping,  potency  defying. 
Care.  Feel  it  then  now ; as  thou  shalt 
find 

When  with  a curse  from  thee  I’ve  wended  : 
Through  their  whole  lives  are  mortals 
blind — 

So  be  thou,  Faust,  ere  life  be  ended  ! 

\_She  breathes  on  him. 


179 


Faust.  (Blind.)  Deeper  and  deeper  night 
is  round  me  sinking  ; 

Only  within  me  shines  a radiant  light. 

I liaste  to  realize,  in  a6l,  my  thinking  ; 

I'he  master’s  word,  that  only  giveth  might. 
Up,  vassals,  from  your  couch  ! my  projedl 
bold. 

Grandly  completed,  now  let  all  behold  ! 

Seize  ye  your  tools ; your  spades,  your  shovels 

The  work  laid  down,  accomplish  instantly! 
Stridt  rule,  swift  diligence,- — these  twain 
The  richest  recompense  obtain. 


Completion  of  the  greatest  work  demands 
One  guiding  spirit  for  a thousand  hands. 


Great  Fore-Court  of  the  Palace. 
Torches. 

Mephis.  ( An  overseer  leading  the  7vay.) 
This  way  1 this  way  ! Come  on  I come  on  ! 
Ye  Lemures,  loose  of  tether. 

Of  tendon,  sinew,  and  of  bone. 

Half  natures,  patch’d  together  ! 


i8o 


Lemures.  (In  chants. ) At  thy  behest 

we’re  here  at  hand  ; 

Thy  destin’d  aim  half  guessing — 

It  is  that  we  a spacious  land 
May  win  for  our  possessing. 
Sharp-pointed  stakes  we  bring  with  speed, 
Long  chains  wherewith  to  measure. 

But  we’ve  forgotten  why  indeed 
d'o  call  us  was  thy  pleasure. 

Mephis.  No  artist-toil  we  need  to-day  ; 
Sufficeth  your  own  measure  here  : 

At  his  full  length  the  tallest  let  him  lay  ! 

Ye  others  round  him  straight  the  turf  uprear ; 
As  for  our  sires  was  done  of  yore, 

An  oblong  square  delve  ye  once  more. 

Out  of  the  palace  to  the  narrow  home — 

So  at  the  last  the  sorr  \-  end  must  come  ! 

Lemures.  ( Digging,  with  mocking  gestures.) 
In  youth  when  I did  live  and  love, 
Methought,  ’twas  very  sweet ! 

\Vhere  frolic  rang  and  mirth  was  rife. 
Thither  still  sped  my  feet. 

Now  with  his  crutch  hath  spiteful  age 
Dealt  me  a blow  full  sore  : 

I stumbl’d  o’er  a yawning  grave. 

Why  open  stood  the  door  ! 

Faust.  ( Conies  forth  from  the  palace, 
groping  his  way  by  the  door-posts.) 

How  doth  the  clang  of  spades  delight  my  soul ! 
For  me  my  vassals  toil,  the  while 
Earth  with  itself  they  reconcile. 

The  waves  within  their  bounds  control. 

And  gird  the  sea  with  steadfast  zone — 

Mephis.  (Aside.)  And  yet  for  us  dost 
work  alone. 

While  thou  for  dam  and  bulwark  carest ; 

Since  thus  for  Neptune  thou  preparest. 

The  water-fiend,  a mightv  fete  ; 

Before  thee  naught  but  ruin  lies  ; 

The  elements  are  our  allies  •, 

Onward  destrudlion  strides  elate. 

Faust.  Inspedtor ! 

Mephis.  Here. 

Faust.  As  many  as  you  may. 

Bring  crowds  on  crowds  to  labor  here ; 

Them  by  reward  and  rigor  cheer  ; 

Persuade,  entice,  give  ample  pay  ! 

Each  day  be  tidings  brought  me  at  what  rate 
The  moat  extends  which  here  we  excavate. 
Mephis.  (Half  aloud.)  They  speak,  as 
if  to  me  they  gave 

Report,  not  of  a moat — but  of  a grave.* 

* The  play  of  words  contained  in  the  original  cannot 
be  reproduced  in  translation,  the  German  for  moat  being 
Graben,  and  for  grave  Grab. 


Faust.  A marsh  along  the  mountain  chain 
Infedleth  what’s  already  won  ; 

Also  the  noisome  pool  to  drain — 

My  last  best  triumph  then  were  won  : 

To  many  millions  space  I thus  should  give. 
Though  not  secure,  yet  free  to  toil  and  live ; 
Green  fields  and  fertile;  men,  with  cattle 
blent. 

Upon  the  newest  earth  would  dwell  content. 
Settled  forthwith  upon  the  firm-bas’d  hill. 
Uplifted  by  a valiant  people’s  skill ; 

Within,  a land  like  Paradise;  outside. 

E’en  to  the  brink,  roars  the  impetuous  tide. 
And  as  it  gnaws,  striving  to  enter  there, 

.\11  haste,  combin’d,  the  damage  to  repair. 
Yea,  to  this  thought  I cling,  with  virtue  rife. 
Wisdom’s  last  fruit,  profoundly  true: 

Freedom  alone  he  earns  as  well  as  life. 

Who  day  by  day  must  conquer  them  anew. 

So  girt  by  danger,  childhood  bravely  here. 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  shall  dwell  from  year 
to  year ; 

Such  busy  crowds  I fain  would  see, 

Upon  free  soil  stand  with  a people  free ; 

Then  to  the  moment  might  I say : 

Linger  awhile,  so  fair  thou  art  ! 

Nor  can  the  traces  of  my  earthly  day 
Through  ages  from  the  world  depart  ! 

In  the  presentiment  of  such  high  bliss. 

The  highest  moment  I enjoy — ’tis  this. 

[Faust  sinks  back,  the  Lemures  lay  hold  of 
him  and  lay  him  upon  the  ground. 

Mephis.  Him  could  no  pleasure  sate,  no 
joys  appease. 

So  woo’d  he  ever  changeful  phantasies; 

The  last  worst  em]ity  moment  to  retain. 

E’en  to  the  last,  the  sorry  wretch  was  fain. 

Me  who  so  stoutly  did  withstand — - 
Time  conquers, — lies  the  old  man  on  the 
sand  ! 

The  clock  stands  still — 

Chorus.  Stands  still,  no  sound  is  heard  ; 
The  index  falls — 

Mephis.  It  falls,  ’tis  finish’d  now. 

1 Chorus.  Yes,  it  is  past ! 

Mephis.  Past,  ’tis  a stupid  word. 

^Vhy  past  ? 

Past  and  pure  nothingness  are  one,  I trow. 

Of  what  avail  creation’s  ceaseless  play? 
Created  things  forthwith  to  sweep  away  ? 
“There,  now  ’tis  past.’’ — ’Tis  past,  what  may 
it  mean  ? 

It  is  as  good  as  if  it  ne’er  had  been. 

And  yet  as  if  it  Being  did  possess. 

Still  in  a circle  it  doth  ceaseless  press : 

I should  prefer  the  Eternal — Emptiness. 


i8i 


BURIAL. 

Lemur.  (Solo.)  ^Vho  hath  the  house  so 
badly  built, 

^\'ith  shovel  and  with  spade? 

Lemukes.  (I/i  chorus.)  For  thee,  sad 
guest,  in  hempen  vest, 

’Tis  all  too  deftly  made. 

Lemur.  (Solo.)  Who  furnish’d  hath  so 
ill  the  place  ? 

Chair,  table,  where  are  they  ? 

Lemures.  (In  chorus.)  Short  was  the 
let ; there  came  apace 
New  claimants,  day  by  day. 

Mephis.  'I’here  lies  the  body,  would  the 
spirit  flee, 

I’d  show  him  speedily  the  blood-sign ’d  scroll — 
Yet  they’ve  so  many  methods,  woe  is  me. 

To  cheat  the  devil  now  of  many  a soul ! 

On  the  old  way  one  is  not  sure ; 

Upon  the  new  we’re  not  commended; 

Else  had  I done  it  unattended ; 

.Assistants  must  I now  procure. 

In  all  things  we’re  in  evil  plight  ! 

'Fran  sm  it  ted  usage,  ancient  right — 

In  these  the  time  for  confidence  is  past. 

\Vith  the  last  breath  once  sped  the  soul  away  ; 
And  like  the  nimblest  mouse,  I watch’d  my 
prey ; 

Snap!  Lock’d  within  my  claws  I held  it  fast; 
Now  she  delays,  nor  will  the  dismal  cell. 

The  loathsome  body,  leave,  though  reft  of  life. 
The  elements,  in  ceaseless  strife. 

Her,  in  the  end,  disgracefully  expel. 

For  days  and  hours  I’ve  plagu’d  myself  ere 
now  ; — 

Abides  the  sorry  question  ; — when  ? where  ? 
how  ? 

Old  death  has  lost  his  power,  once  swift  and 
strong ; 

If  dead  or  no?  in  doubt  we  tarry  long; 

On  rigid  members  oft  I’ve  lustful  gaz’d  ; 

’Twas  but  a feint,  it  stirr’d,  once  more  itself 
uprais’d  ! 

\_Fanfastic  gestures  of  conjuration. 
Come  swiftly  on!  Double  your  speed;  no 
pause  ! 

Lords  of  the  straight,  lords  of  the  crooked 
horn  ! 

Chips  of  the  ancient  block,  true  devils  born. 
Hither  bring  ye  forthwith  Hell’s  murky  jaws. 
Hell,  to  be  sure,  full  many  jaws  may  claim; 
Which  gape  as  rank  enjoins,  and  dignity  ; 

But  we  however  in  this  final  game. 

Not  so  particular  henceforth  will  be. 

[ The  ghastly  jaws  of  Hell  open  on  the  left. 

1 82 


I Clatter  the  corner-teeth ; the  fire-stream  whirl- 

' ing. 

The  vault’s  abyss  doth  overflow, 

And  through  the  background-smoke  upcurling 
The  town  of  flame  I see  in  endless  glow  ; 

Up  to  the  very  teeth  the  ruddy  billow  dashes; 
The  damn’d,  salvation  hoping,  swim  amain, 
Them  in  his  jaws  the  huge  hyena  crashes. 

Then  they  retrace  their  path  of  fiery  pain. 

In  nooks  fresh  horrors  lurk  to  scare  the  sight. 
In  narrowest  space  supremest  agony  : 

Full  well  ye  do,  thus  sinners  to  affright. 

They  hold  it  but  for  dream,  deceit  and  lie. 

( To  the  stout  devils,  with  short  straight 
horns. ) 

Now,  paunchy  slaves,  with  cheeks  that  hotly 
burn. 

On  hellish  brimstone  richly  fed,  ye  glow. 
Clumsy  and  short,  with  necks  that  never 
turn — 

For  gleam  like  phosphor-light,  watch  here 
below : 

It  is  the  soul.  Psyche,  with  soaring  wing; 

The  wings  pluck  off,  so  ’tis  a sorry  worm. 

First  with  my  seal  I’ll  stamp  the  ugly  thing. 
Then  off  with  it  to  fiery-whirling  storm  ! 

Mark  ye  the  lower  regions  duly. 

Ye  bladders  ! ’tis'your  duty  so  ! 

If  there  she  likes  to  harbor, — truly, 

We  cannot  accurately  know  ; 

She  in  the  navel  loves  to  bide : 

Take  heed,  lest  from  you  thence  away  she 
glide  ! 

( To  the  lean  devils,  ivith  lo?ig  crooked  horns. ) 
Buffoons,  ye  fuglemen,  a giant  crew. 

Grasp  in  the  air,  still  clutch  without  repose, 
AVith  outstretch’d  arms,  claws  sharp  and  pliant 
too. 

The  fluttering,  fleeing  creature  to  enclose  ! 

In  her  old  home  she  rests  uneasily, 

Genius  aspires,  it  fain  would  soar  on  high. 

[ Glory  from  above,  on  the  7-ight. 

The  Heavenly  Host.  Follow,  ye  envoys 
bless’ d. 

Leave,  brood  of  Heaven,  your  rest. 
Earthward  to  steer : 

Sinners  do  ye  forgive, 

Dust  cause  ye  now  to  live  ! 

Floating  on  outspread  wing 
Through  nature’s  sphere. 

Kindliest  traces  bring 
Of  your  career ! 

Mephis.  Discordant  tones  I hear,  an  odious 
noise 

Comes  with  unwelcome  daylight  from  above : 


11111111111.111111111^1111111111111111 


ARTIST  : FRANZ  SIMM. 

FA  U S'  1\  SECOND  PA  RT . 


ANGELS  STREWING  ROSES  ON  THE  BODY  OF  FAUST. 


j 


Faust. 


Second  Part. 


A mawkish  whimper,  fit  for  girls  and  boys,  I 
Such  as  a canting  taste  doth  still  approve.  I 
Ye  know  how  we,  in  hours  with  curses  fraught,  i 
Plann’d  the  destruction  of  the  human  race  : 
The  most  atrocious  produCt  of  our  thought 
In  their  devotion  finds  a fitting  place. 

They  come,  the  fools,  in  hypocritic  guise  ! 

Full  many  a soul  from  us  they’ve  snatch’d 
away — 

With  our  own  weapons  \varring  ’gainst  us,  they 
Are  devils  also,  only  in  disguise. 

Here  your  defeat  eternal  shame  would  bring  ; 
On  to  the  grave,  and  to  the  margin  cling  ! 

Chorus  of  Angels.  (Scattering  roses.) 
Roses,  with  dazzling  sheen. 

Balsam  outpouring  ! 

Float  heaven  and  earth  between. 

Sweet  life  restoring ! 

Branchlets  with  plumy  wing. 

Buds  softly  opening 
Hasten  to  blow  ! 

Burst  into  verdure,  Spring, 

Purple  and  green  ! 

To  him  who  sleeps  below. 

Paradise  bring  ! 

Mephis.  ( To  the  Satans. ) Why  duck  and 
shrink?  Is  this  hell’s  wonted  way? 

Stand  firm,  and  let  them  scatter  to  and  fro. 

Back  to  his  place  each  fool!  Imagine  they, 
Forsooth,  with  such  a pretty  flowery  show. 

To  cover  the  hot  devils,  as  with  snow  ? 

They’ll  shrink  and  shrivel  where  your  breath- 
ings play. 

Blow  now,  ye  Blowers  ! Hold  ! not  quite  so 
fast ! 

Pales  the  whole  bevy  ’neath  your  fiery  blast. 

Not  quite  so  fiercely!  Mouth  and  nostril 
close  ! 

Your  breathing  now  too  strongly  blows. 

O that  ye  never  the  just  mean  will  learn  ! 

That  shrivels  not  alone,  ’twill  scorch  and 
burn. 

Floating  they  come,  with  poisonous  flames  and 
clear ; 

Stand  firm  against  them,  press  together  here  ! — 

Force  is  extinguish’d,  courage  all  is  spent ; 

A strange  alluring  glow  the  devils  seen  . 

Angels.  Blossoms,  with  rapture  crown’d. 
Flames  fraught  with  gladness. 

Love  they  diffuse  around, 

Banishing  sadness, 

As  the  heart  may  : 


Words,  blessed  truth  that  tell. 

Give,  by  their  potent  spell. 

Spirits  eterne  to  dwell 
In  endless  day  ! 

Mephis.  A curse  upon  the  idiot  band  ! 
Upon  their  heads  the  Satans  stand  ! 

Tail  foremost  down  the  hellward  path 
Plunge  round  and  round  the  clumsy  host. 
Enjoy  your  well-earn’d  fiery  bath  ! 

But  for  my  part.  I’ll  keep  my  post. 

[^Striking  aside  the  hovering  roses. 
Off,  will-o’-the-wisp  ! How  bright  soe’er  thy 
ray. 

Captur’d,  thou’rt  but  an  odious,  pulpy  thing ; 
Why  flutterest  ? Wilt  vanish,  straight  away  ! — 
Like  pitch  and  brimstone  to  my  neck  dost 
cling  ? 

Angel.  ( Chorus.)  Doth  aught  thy  nature 
mar  ? 

Cease  to  endure  it ; 

If  ’gainst  thy  soul  it  war. 

Must  ye  abjure  it ; 

If  to  press  in  it  try. 

Quell  it  right  valiantly  ! 

’Tis  love  the  loving  one 
Leadeth  on  high. 

Mephis.  I’m  all  aflame,  head,  heart  and 
liver  burn — 

An  over-devilish  element. 

Than  hellish  fire  more  sharp  by  far  ! 

Hence  ye  so  mightily  lament. 

Unhappy  lovers,  who,  when  scorn’d  ye  are. 
After  your  sweethearts  still  your  necks  must 
turn. 

Thus  too  with  me,  what  draws  my  head  aside  ? 
Them  have  I not  to  deadly  war  defi’d? 

My  fiercest  hate  their  aspedl  wak’d  of  yore; 
Hath  something  alien  pierc’d  me  through  and 
through  ? 

These  gracious  youths,  them  am  I fain  to 
view  ! — 

What  now  restrains  me  that  I curse  no  more? 
And  if  befool’d  I now  should  be. 

Who  may  henceforth  “the  fool’’  be  styl’d? — 
'rhe  rascals,  whom  I hate,  for  me 
Too  lovely  are,  I fairly  am  beguil’d  ! 

Sweet  children,  tell  me,  to  the  race 
Belong  ye  not  of  Lucifer? 

So  fair  ye  seem,  you  I would  fain  embrace  ! 

At  the  right  moment  ye  appear  ; 

So  pleasant  ’tis,  so  natural,  as  though 
I you  had  seen  a thousand  times  before. 

So  lustfully  alluring  now  ye  show. 

'With  every  look  your  beauty  charms  me  more  ! 
O nearer  come  ! O grant  me  but  one  glance  ! 


Angel.  We  come,  why  dost  thou  shrink  as 
we  advance  ? 

So,  if  thou  canst,  abide ; go  not  away. 

\_The  angels  hover  round,  and  occupy  the  en- 
tire space. 

Mephis.  ( 1 1 7/0  is  pressed  into  the  prosce- 
nium.) As  spirits  damn’d  we’re  blam’d 
by  you — 

Yourselves  are  yet  the  sorcerers  true, 

For  man  and  maid  ye  lead  astray. — 

A curs’d  adventure  this  I trow  ! 

Is  this  love’s  element  ? My  frame 
In  fire  is  plung’d,  I scarcely  now 
Feel  on  my  neck  the  scorching  flame  ! — 

Ye  hover  to  and  fro;  with  pinions  furl’d 
Float  downward,  after  fashion  of  the  world 
Move  your  sweet  limbs;  in  sooth  that  earnest 
style 

Becomes  you ; yet,  for  once,  I fain  would  see 
you  smile ; 

That  were  for  me  a rapture  unsurpass’d, — 

A glance,  I mean,  like  that  which  lovers  cast : 
A slight  turn  of  the  mouth,  so  is  it  done. — 
Thee,  tall  and  stately  youth,  most  dearly  thee 
I prize ; 


But  ill  beseemeth  thee  that  priestly  guise. 

Give  me  one  loving  glance,  I crave  but 
one  ! 

Ye  might,  with  decency,  less  cloth’d  appear, 
O’er  modest  in  such  lengthen’d  drapery. — 
They  wheel  around,  to  see  them  in  the  rear ! 
All  too  enticing  are  the  rogues  for  me ! 

Chorus  of  Angels.  Love  now  with  lus- 
trous ray 
Thy  fires  reveal  ! 

Those  to  remorse  a jirey 
'fruth’s  power  can  heal  ; 

No  longer  evils  thrall. 

Joyful  and  blest. 

One  with  the  All-in-all, 

Henceforth  they  rest  ! 

Mephis.  ( CoUePhng  himself. ) How  is’t 
with  me?  The  man  entire,  like  Job, 
Must  loathe  himself,  cleft  through  with  boil  on 
boil,— 

Yet  triumphs  too,  after  the  first  recoil. 

If  he  his  inward  nature  fairly  probe, 

And  in  himself  confides  and  in  his  kin  : 

Sav’d  are  the  noble  devil  parts  within. 

This  love  attack  he  casts  upon  the  skin, — 


184 


Burnt  out  already  are  the  cursed  flames, 

And,  one  and  all,  I curse  you,  as  the  occasion 
claims ! 

Chorus  of  Angels.  Whom  ye  with  hal- 
low’d glow. 

Pure  fires,  o’erbrood, 

Bless’d  in  love’s  overflow. 

Lives  with  the  good. 

Singing  with  voices  clear. 

Soar  from  beneath ; 

Pure  is  the  atmosphere, 

Breathe,  spirit,  breathe  ! 

[ They  rise,  hearing  with  them  the  immortal 
part  of  Faust. 

Mephis.  (Looking  around.)  How  is  it? 
Whither  are  they  gone  ? 

Me  have  ye  cozen’d,  young  things  though  ye 
be  ! 

They  with  their  booty  now  are  heavenward 
flown. 

Therefore  they  nibbl’d  at  this  grave  ! From 
me 

A great  rare  prize  they’ve  captur’d  : the  high 
soul. 

That  pledg’d  itself  to  me  with  written  scroll, — 
This  have  they  filch’d  away,  right  cunningly ! 
From  whom  shall  I now  seek  redress  ? 

Who  can  secure  my  well-earn’d  right? 

In  thine  old  days  thou’rt  cheated  ! Yet  con- 
fess. 

Thou  hast  deserv’d  it,  art  in  sorry  plight; 
Mismanag’d  have  I in  disgraceful  sort. 

Vast  outlay  shamefully  away  have  thrown  ; 
d'he  devil’s  sense,  though  season’d  well,  the 
sport 

Of  common  lust ! — a love  absurd  I own. 

And  if  the  shrewd  old  devil  chose 
Himself  to  busy  with  this  childish  freak. 

Not  small  the  foolishness,  the  truth  to  speak. 
Which  him  hath  thus  o’ermaster’d  at  the  close. 


Mountain  Defiles,  Forest,  Rock,  Wilder- 
ness. 

Holy  anchorites,  dispersed  up  the  hill,  sta- 
tioned among  the  clefts. 

Chorus  and  Echo.  Forests  are  waving 
here. 

Rocks  their  huge  fronts  uprear. 

Roots  round  each  other  coil. 

Stems  thickly  crowd  the  .soil ; 

Wave  gusheth  after  wave. 

Shelter  yields  deepest  cave  ; 


Lions,  in  silence  round 
Tamely  that  rove. 

Honor  the  hallow’d  ground. 

Refuge  of  love. 

Pater  Ecstaticus.  (Floating  up  and 
down.)  Joy’s  everlasting  fire, 

Love’s  glow  of  pure  desire. 

Pang  of  the  seething  breast. 

Rapture,  a hallow’d  guest ! 

Darts,  pierce  me  through  and  through, 
Lances,  my  flesh  subdue. 

Clubs,  me  to  atoms  dash. 

Lightnings,  athwart  me  flash. 

That  all  the  worthless  may 
Pass  like  a cloud  away. 

While  shineth  from  afar. 

Love’s  germ,  a deathless  star. 

Pater  Profundus.  (Lower  region.) 

As  the  rock-chasm,  sheer  descending. 

On  chasm  resteth  more  profound, 

As  thousand  sparkling  streamlets  blending, 
Foam  in  the  torrent’s  headlong  bound; 

As  soars,  the  realm  of  air  invading. 

The  stem,  imped’d  by  inward  strain  ; 

So  love,  almighty,  all-pervading. 

Doth  all  things  mould,  doth  all  sustain. 

A roaring  that  the  heart  appalleth 
I Sounds  as  if  shook  the  wood-crown’d  steep ; 

I Yet,  lovely  in  its  plashing,  falleth 
The  wealth  of  water  to  the  deep. 

Refreshment  to  the  valley  bearing ; 

The  atmosphere,  with  poison  fraught. 

The  lightning  cleareth,  wildly  flaring. 

Whose  deadly  flash  dire  ruin  brought — 

Love’s  heralds  these.  His  purpose  telling 
Who,  ever-working,  us  surrounds. 

Come,  holy  fire,  within  me  dwelling, 

Where,  tortur’d  in  the  senses’  bounds. 

Fetters  of  pain  my  soul  enclosing. 

Hold  it  immur’d  in  rayless  gloom  ! 

O God,  my  troubl’d  thoughts  composing. 

My  needy  heart  do  thou  illume  ! 

Pater  Seraphicus.  (Middle  region.) 
Through  the  pine  trees’  waving  tresses, 

What  bright  cloud  floats  high  and  higher? 
What  it  shrouds  my  spirit  guesses  ! 

Soars  from  earth  and  youthful  choir. 

Chorus  of  Blessed  Boys.  Whither,  father, 
are  we  hieing  ? 

Tell  us,  kind  one,  who  are  we  ? 

Happy  are  we,  upward  flying ; 

Unto  all  ’tis  bliss  to  be! 

Father  Seraphicus.  Boys,  ere  soul  or 
sense  could  waken. 

Ye  were  born  at  midnight  hour ; 


185 


From  your  parents  straightway  taken, 

For  the  angels  a sweet  dower. 

You  a loving  one  embraces, 

This  ye  feel ; then  hither  fare  ! 

But  of  earth’s  rude  paths  no  traces, 

Blessed  ones,  your  spirits  bear. 

In  the  organ  now  descending 
Of  my  worldly,  earth-born,  eyes; 

Use  them,  thus  thy  need  befriending — 

View  the  sphere  that  round  you  lies  : 

\^He  takes  them  into  himself. 
There  are  trees ; there  rocks  upsoaring ; 
Headlong  there  the  flood  doth  leajJ ; 

Cleaves  the  torrent,  loudly  roaring. 

Shorter  passage  to  the  deep. 

Blessed  Boys.  {From  within.)  Grand  the 
scene,  but  fear  awaking  : — 

Desolate  the  spot  and  drear, 

Us  with  dread  and  horror  shaking. 

Hold  us  not,  kind  father,  here  ! 

Pater  Seraphicus.  Rise  to  higher  spheres, 
and  higher  ! 

Unobserv’d  your  growth,  yet  sure. 

As  God’s  presence  doth  inspire 
Strength,  by  laws  eternal,  pure. 

This  the  spirit’s  nurture,  stealing 
Through  the  ether’s  depths  profound  : 

Love  eternal,  self-revealing. 

Sheds  beatitude  around. 

Chorus  of  Blessed  Boys.  ( Circlmg  round 
the  highest  summit.)  Through  ether  wing- 
ing. 

Hands  now  entwine. 

Joyfully  singing 
With  feelings  divine  ! 

Taught  by  the  Deity, 

Trust  in  His  grace  ; 

Wliom  ye  adore  shall  ye 
See  face  to  face  ! 

Angels.  ( Hovering  in  the  higher  atmo- 
sphere, bearing  the  immortal  part  of 
Faust. J Sav’d  is  this  noble  soul  from 

ill’  . . 

Our  spirit-peer.  Who  ever 

Strives  forward  with  unswerving  will, — 

Him  can  we  aye  deliver  ; 

And  if  with  him  celestial  love 
Hath  taken  part, — to  meet  him 
Come  down  the  angels  from  above ; 

With  cordial  hail  they  greet  him. 

The  Younger  Angels.  Roses,  from  fair 
hands  descending, 

Holy,  penitent  and  pure. 

Our  high  mission  gladly  ending. 

Help’d  our  conquest  to  secure. 

Making  ours  this  spirit-treasure. 


Demons  shrank,  in  sore  displeasure, 

Devils  fled,  as  we  assail’d  them. 

Hell’s  accustom’d  torture  fail’d  them. 

They  by  pangs  of  love  were  riven  ; 

The  old  Satan-master  even. 

Pierced  was  by  sharp  annoyance. 

Conquer’d  have  we  ! shout  with  joyance  ! 

The  More  Perfect  Angels.  Sad  ’tis  for 
us  to  bear 

Spirit  earth-encumber’d ; 

Though  of  asbest  he  were. 

Yet  is  he  number’d 

Not  with  the  pure.  For  where 

Worketh  strong  spirit-force. 

Elements  blending. 

No  angel  may  divorce 
Natures  thus  tending 
Of  twain  to  form  but  one ; 

Parts  them  God’s  love,  alone. 

Their  union  ending. 

The  Younger  Angels.  Mistlike,  with 
movement  rife, 

Rock-summits  veiling, 

Near  us  a spirit-life 
Upwards  is  sailing ; 

Now  grow  the  vapors  clear ; 

Yonder  bless’d  boys  appear. 

In  chorus  blending  ; 

They  from  earth’s  pressure  free 
Circle  united : 

Still  upward  tending. 

In  the  new  spring  with  glee 
Bathe  they  delighted  : 

Here  let  him  then  begin. 

Yet  fuller  life  to  win. 

With  these  united. 

Blessed  Boys.  Him  as  a chrysalis 
Joyful  receive  we : 

Pledge  of  angelic  bliss 
In  him  achieve  we. 

Loosen  the  flakes  of  earth 
That  still  enfold  him  ! 

Great  through  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  fair,  now  behold  him. 

Doctor  Marianus.  ( In  the  highest,  purest 
cell. ) Here  is  the  prospedl  free. 

The  soul  subliming. 

Yonder  fair  forms  I see. 

Heavenward  they’re  climbing; 

In  starry  wreath  is  seen. 

Lofty  and  tender. 

Midmost  the  heavenly  Queen, 

Known  by  her  splendor.  \_Enraptured. 
In  thy  tent  of  azure  hue, 

Queen  supremely  reigning, 

Let  me  now  thy  secret  view. 


i86 


Vision  high  obtaining  ! 

With  the  holy  joy  of  love, 

In  man’s  breast,  whatever 
Lifts  the  soul  to  thee  above. 

Kind  one,  foster  ever  ! 

All  invincible  we  feel. 

If  our  arm  thou  claimest ; 

Suddenly  assuag’d  our  zeal 
If  our  breast  thou  tamest. 

Virgin,  pure  from  taint  of  earth. 
Mother,  we  adore  thee. 

With  the  Godhead  one  by  birth. 
Queen,  we  bow  before  thee  ! 

Cloudlets  are  pressing 
Gently  around  her ; 

Her  knee  caressing 
Cloudlets  surround  her;  — 
Penitents  are  they  ; 

Ether  inhaling. 

Their  sins  bewailing. 

Passionless  and  pure,  from  thee 
Hath  it  not  been  taken. 

That  poor  frail  ones  may  to  thee 
Come,  with  trust  unshaken. 

In  their  weakness  snatch’d  away. 
Hard  it  is  to  save  them ; 

By  their  own  strength  rend  who  may 
Fetters  that  enslave  them  ! 

Glide  on  slippery  ground  the  feet 
Swiftly  downward  sailing  ! 


Whom  befool  not  glances  sweet,  ' 

Flattery’s  breath  inhaling  ! 

[Mater  Gloriosa  soars  forward. 
Chorus  of  Female  Penitents.  To  realms, 
eternal 

Upward  art  soaring; 

Peerless,  supernal. 

Hear  our  imploring. 

Thy  grace  adoring. 

[VA  Luke  vii.  36. 
Magna  Peccatrix.  By  the  love,  warm 
tears  outpouring. 

Laving  as  with  balsam  sweet, 

Pharisaic  sneers  ignoring. 

Of  thy  godlike  Son  the  feet ; 

By  the  vase,  rich  odor  breathing. 

Lavishing  its  costly  store  ; 

By  the  locks,  that  gently  wreathing. 

Dried  his  holy  feet  once  more — 

Mulier  Samaritana.  (St.  John  iv.j 
By  the  well,  whereto  were  driven 
Abram’s  flocks  in  ancient  days  ; 

By  the  cooling  draught  thence  given, 

Which  the  Saviour’s  thirst  allays  ; 

By  the  fountain,  still  outsending 
Thence  its  waters,  far  and  wide. 

Overflowing,  never-ending. 

Through  all  worlds  it  pours  its  tide — 

Maria  H^gyptiaca.  (Adla  Sanflorian. ) 

By  the  hallow’d  grave,  whose  portal 
Clos’d  upon  the  Lord  of  yore ; 


187 


Faust.  Second  Part. 


By  the  arm,  unseen  by  mortal, 

Back  which  thnist  me  from  the  door  •, 

By  my  penance,  slowly  fleeting, 

Forty  years  amid  the  waste  ; 

By  the  blessed  farewell  greeting. 

Which  upon  the  sand  1 trac’d — 

The  Three.  Thou,  unto  the  greatly  sin- 
ning. 

Access  who  dost  not  deny, 

By  sincere  repentance  winning 
Bliss  throughout  eternity. 

So  from  this  good  soul,  thy  blessing. 

Who  but  once  itself  forgot. 

Sin  who  knew  not,  while  transgressing. 
Gracious  One,  withhold  thou  not  ! 

Una  Pcenitentium.  (Formerly  named 
Gretchen,  pressing  towards  her.) 
Incline,  oh,  incline. 

All  others  excelling. 

In  glory  aye  dwelling. 

Unto  my  bliss  thy  glance  benign  ! 

The  lov’d  one,  ascending. 

His  long  trouble  ending. 

Comes  back,  he  is  mine  ! 

Blessed  Boys.  ( They  approach,  hovering 
in  a circle.)  Mighty  of  limb,  he  towers 
E’en  now,  above  us; 

He  for  this  care  of  ours 
Richly  will  love  us. 

Dying,  ere  we  could  reach 
Earth’s  pain  or  pleasure  ; 

What  he  hath  learn’d  he’ll  teach 
In  ample  measure. 


A Penitent.  (^Formerly  natned  Gretchen.) 
Encircl’d  by  the  choirs  of  heaven. 

Scarcely  himself  the  stranger  knows  ; 

Scarce  feels  the  existence  newly  given. 

So  like  the  heavenly  host  he  grows. 

See,  how  he  every  band  hath  riven  ! 

From  earth’s  old  vesture  freed  at  length. 

Now  cloth’ d upon  by  garb  of  heaven. 

Shines  forth  his  pristine  youthful  strength. 

To  guide  him,  be  it  given  to  me; 

Still  dazzles  him  the  new-born  day. 

Mater  Gloriosa.  Ascend,  thine  influence 
feeleth  he. 

He’ll  follow  on  thine  upward  way. 

Doctor  Marianus.  (Adormg,  prostrate  on 
his  face.)  Penitents,  her  Saviour-glance 
Gratefully  beholding 
To  beatitude  advance. 

Still  new  powers  unfolding  ! 

Thine  each  better  thought  shall  be. 

To  thy  service  given  ! 

Holy  Virgin,  gracious  be. 

Mother,  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 

Chorus  Mysticus.  All  of  mere  transient 
date 

As  symbol  showeth ; 

Here,  the  inadequate 
To  fulness  groweth  ; 

Here  the  ineffable 
Wrought  is  in  love  ; 

'Phe  ever-womanly 
Draws  us  above. 


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DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Margaret  of  Parma,  daughter  of  Charles  V., 
and  Regent  of  the  Netherlands. 

Count  Egmont,  Prince  of  Gaurc. 

William  of  Orange. 

The  Duke  of  Alva. 

Ferdinand,  his  natural  Son. 

Machiavel,  in  the  senaee  of  the  Regent. 
Richard,  Egmont's  Private  Secretary. 

Silva, 

Gomez, 

Clara,  the  Beloved  of  Egmont. 


in  the  service  of  Alva. 


> Citizens  of  Brussels. 


Her  Mother. 

Brackenrurg,  a Citizen' s Son. 

Soest,  a Shopkeeper,  'j 
Jetter,  a Tailor, 

A Carpenter, 

A Soapboiler, 

Buyck,  a Hollander,  a Soldier  under  Egmont. 
Ruysum,  a Erieslander,  an  invalid  Soldier, 
and  deaf. 

Vansen,  a Clerk. 

People,  Attendants,  Guards,  etc. 


The  Scene  is  laid  in  Brussels. 


190 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Soldiers  and  Citizens,  luith  cross- 
bows. 

Jetter  (steps  forward,  and  bends  his  cross- 
bow). SoEST,  Buycr,  Ruysum. 

SoEST.  Come,  shoot  away,  and  have  done 
with  it ! You  won’t  beat  me!  Three  black 
rings,  you  never  made  such  a shot  in  all  your 
life.  And  so  I’m  master  for  this  year. 

Jetter.  Master  and  king  to  boot;  who 
envies  you?  You’ll  have  to  pay  double 
reckoning;  ’tis  only  fair  you  should  pay  for 
your  dexterity. 

Buyck.  Jetter,  I’ll  buy  your  shot,  share 
the  prize,  and  treat  the  company.  I have  al- 
ready been  here  so  long,  and  am  a debtor 
for  so  many  civilities.  If  I miss,  then  it  shall 
be  as  if  you  had  shot. 

SoEST.  I ought  to  have  a voice,  for  in  fa6l 
I am  the  loser.  No  matter  ! Come,  Buyck, 
shoot  away. 

Buyck.  (Shoots.)  Now,  corporal,  look 

out  ! — One  ! two  ! three  1 four  ! 

SoE.ST.  Four  rings  ! So  be  it ! 

All.  Hurrah ! Long  live  the  king ! 
Hurrah  1 hurrah  1 

Buyck.  Thanks,  sirs,  master  even  were 

too  much  1 Thanks  for  the  honor. 


Jetter.  You  have  no  one  to  thank  but 
yourself. 

Ruysum.  Let  me  tell  you  ! — 

SoEST.  How  now,  graybeard  ? 

Ruysum.  Let  me  tell  you  ! — He  shoots 
like  his  master,  he  shoots  like  Egmont. 

Buyck.  Compared  with  him  I am  only  a 
bungler.  He  aims  with  the  rifle  as  no  one 
else  does.  Not  only  when  he’s  lucky  or  in 
the  vein  ; no  ! he  levels,  and  the  bull’s-eye  is 
pierced.  I have  learned  from  him.  He  were 
indeed  a blockhead  who  could  serve  under 
him  and  learn  nothing  ! — But,  sirs,  let  us  not 
forget  I A king  maintains  his  followers  ; and 
so,  wine  here,  at  the  king’s  charge  ! 

Jetter.  We  have  agreed  among  ourselves 
that  each — 

Buyck.  I am  a foreigner  and  a king,  and 
care  not  a jot  for  your  laws  and  customs. 

Jetter.  Why,  you  are  worse  than  the  Span- 
iard, who  has  not  yet  ventured  to  meddle  with 
them. 

Ruysum.  What  does  he  say  ? 

SoEST.  (Loud  to  Ruysum.)  He  wants  to 
treat  us  ; he  will  not  hear  of  our  clubbing  to- 
gether, the  king  paying  only  a double  share. 

Ruysum.  Let  him  ! under  protest,  how- 
ever ! ’Tis  his  master’s  fashion,  too,  to  be 

191 


munificent,  and  to  let  the  money  flow  in  a 
good  cause.  [ JF/ne  is  brought. 

All.  Here’s  to  his  Majesty  ! Hurrah  ! 

Jetter.  (7h  Buyck.)  That  means  your 
Majesty,  of  course. 

Buyck.  My  hearty  thanks,  if  it  be  so. 

SoEST.  Assuredly ! A Netherlander  does 
not  find  it  easy  to  drink  the  health  of  his 
Spanish  majesty  from  his  heart. 

Ruysum.  Who  ? 

SoEST.  (Aloud.)  Philip  the  Second,  King 
of  Spain. 

Ruysum.  Our  most  gracious  king  and 
master ! Long  life  to  him. 

SoEST.  Did  you  not  like  his  father,  Charles 
the  Fifth,  better? 

Ruysum.  God  bless  him  ! He  was  a king 
indeed  ! His  hand  reached  over  the  whole 
earth,  and  he  was  all  in  all.  Yet,  when  he 
met  you,  he’d  greet  you  just  as  one  neighbor 
greets  another, — and  if  you  were  frightened, 
he  knew  so  well  how  to  put  you  at  your  ease — 
ay,  you  understand  me — he  walked  out,  rode 
out,  just  as  it  came  into  his  head,  with  very 
few  followers.  We  all  wept  when  he  resigned 
the  government  here  to  his  son.  You  under- 
stand me — he  is  another  sort  of  man,  he’s 
more  majestic. 

Jetter.  When  he  was  here,  he  never  ap- 
peared in  public,  except  in  pomp  and  royal 
state.  He  speaks  little,  they  say. 

SoEST.  He  is  no  king  for  us  NetherHnders. 
Our  princes  must  be  joyous  and  free  like  our- 
selves, must  live  and  let  live.  We  will  neither 
be  despised  nor  oppressed,  good-natured  fools 
though  we  be. 

Jetter.  The  king,  methinks,  were  a gra- 
cious sovereign  enough,  if  he  had  only  better 
counsellors. 

Soest.  No,  no  ! He  has  no  affedlion  for 
us  Netherlanders ; he  has  no  heart  for  the 
people ; he  loves  us  not ; how  then  can  we 
love  him  ? Why  is  everybody  so  fond  of 
Count  Egmont  ? Why  are  we  all  so  devoted 
to  him  ? Why,  because  one  can  read  in  his 
face  that  he  loves  us ; because  joyousness, 
open-heartedness  and  good-nature  speak  in 
his  eyes ; because  he  possesses  nothing  that  he 
does  not  share  with  him  who  needs  it,  ay,  and 
with  him  who  needs  it  not.  Long  live  Count 
Egmont ! Buyck,  it  is  for  you  to  give  the 
first  toast ; give  us  your  master’s  health. 

Buyck.  With  all  my  heart ; here’s  to  Count 
Egmont  ! Hurrah  ! 

Ruysum.  Conqueror  of  St.  Quintin. 

Buyck.  The  hero  of  Gravelines. 


All.  Hurrah ! 

Ruysum.  St.  Quintin  was  my  last  battle. 

I was  hardly  able  to  crawl  along,  and  could 
with  difficulty  carry  my  heavy  rifle.  I man- 
aged, notwithstanding,  to  singe  the  skin  of 
the  French  once  more,  and,  as  a parting  gift, 
received  a grazing  shot  in  my  right  leg. 

Buyck.  Gravelines!  Ha,  my  friends,  we 
had  sharp  work  of  it  there  |.  The  vidtory  was 
all  our  own.  Did  not  those  French  dogs  carry 
fire  and  desolation  into  the  very  heart  of  Flan- 
ders? We  gave  it  them,  however  ! The  old 
hard-fisted  veterans  held  out  bravely  for  a 
while,  but  we  pushed  on,  fired  away,  and  laid 
about  us,  till  they  made  wry  faces,  and  their 
lines  gave  way.  Then  Egmont’s  horse  was 
shot  under  him ; and  for  a long  time  we 
fought  pell-mell,  man  to  man,  horse  to  horse, 
troop  to  troop,  on  the  broad,  flat,  sea-sand. 
Suddenly,  as  if  from  heaven,  down  came  the 
cannon-shot  from  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
bang,  bang,  right  into  the  midst  of  the  French. 
These  were  English,  who,  under  Admiral  Ma- 
lin,  happened  to  be  sailing  past  from  Dunkirk. 
They  did  not  help  us  much,  ’tis  true;  they 
could  only  approach  with  their  smallest  vessels, 
and  that  not  near  enough; — besides,  their  shot 
fell  sometimes  among  our  troops.  It  did  some 
good,  however ! It  broke  the  French  lines, 
and  raised  our  courage.  Away  it  went. 
Helter-skelter ! topsy-turvy  ! all  struck  dead, 
or  forced  into  the  water ; the  fellows  were 
drowned  the  moment  they  tasted  the  water, 
while  we  Hollanders  dashed  in  after  them. 
Being  amphibious,  we  were  as  much  in  our 
element  as  frogs,  and  hacked  away  at  the 
enemy,  and  shot  them  down  as  if  they  had 
been  ducks.  The  few  who  struggled  through 
were  struck  dead  in  their  flight  by  the  peasant 
women,  armed  with  hoes  and  pitchforks.  His 
Gallic  majesty  was  compelled  at  once  to  hold 
out  his  paw  and  make  peace.  And  that  peace 
you  owe  to  us,  to  the  great  Egmont. 

All.  Hurrah  for  the  great  Egmont ! 
Hurrah  I hurrah  1 

Jetter.  Had  they  but  appointed  him  Re- 
gent, instead  of  Margaret  of  Parma ! 

Soest.  Not  so  1 Truth  is  truth  ! I’ll  not 
hear  Margaret  abused.  Now  it  is  my  turn. 
Long  live  our  gracious  lady  ! 

All.  Long  life  to  her  ! 

Soest.  Truly,  there  are  excellent  women 
in  that  family.  Long  live  the  Regent ! 

Jetter.  Prudent  is  she,  and  moderate  in 
all  she  does  ; if  she  would  only  not  hold  so 
fast  and  stiffly  with  the  priests.  It  is  partly 


192 


her  fault,  too,  that  we  have  the  fourteen  new 
mitres  in  the  land.  Of  what  use  are  they,  I 
should  like  to  know  ? Why,  that  foreigners 
may  be  shoved  into  the  good  benefices,  where 
formerly  abbots  were  chosen  out  of  the  chap- 
ters ! And  we’re  to  believe  it’s  for  the  sake 
of  religion.  We  know  better.  Three  bishops 
were  enough  for  us;  things  went  on  decently 
and  reputably.  Now  each  must  busy  himself 
as  if  he  were  needed;  and  this  gives  rise  every 
moment  to  dissensions  and  ill-will.  And  the 
more  you  agitate  the  matter,  so  much  the 
worse  it  grows.  \_They  drink. 

SoEST.  But  it  was  the  will  of  the  king  ; 
she  cannot  alter  it,  one  way  or  another. 

Jetter.  Then  we  may  not  even  sing  the 
new  psalms;  but  ribald  songs,  as  many  as  we 
please.  And  why?  There  is  heresy  in  them, 
they  say,  and  Heaven  knows  what.  I have 
sung  some  of  them,  however  ; they  are  new, 
to  be  sure,  but  I see  no  harm  in  them. 

Buyck.  Ask  their  leave,  forsooth  ! In  our 
province  we  sing  just  what  we  please.  That’s 
because  Count  Egmont  is  our  stadtholder,  who 
does  not  trouble  himself  about  such  matters. 
In  Ghent,  Ypres,  and  throughout  the  whole 
of  Flanders,  anybody  sings  them  that  chooses. 


(Aloud  to  There  is  nothing  more 

harmless  than  a spiritual  song  — is  there, 
father  ? 

Ruysum.  What,  indeed  ! It  is  a godly 
work,  and  truly  edifying. 

Jetter.  They  say,  however,  that  they  are 
not  of  the  right  sort,  not  of  their  sort,  and, 
since  it  is  dangerous,  we  had  better  leave 
them  alone,  d'he  officers  of  the  Inquisition 
are  always  lurking  and  spying  about ; many 
an  honest  fellow  has  already  fallen  into  their 
clutches.  They  had  not  gone  so  far  as  to 
meddle  with  conscience!  If  they  will  not 
allow  me  to  do  what  I like,  they  might  at 
least  let  me  think  and  sing  as  I please. 

SoEST.  The  Inquisition  won’t  do  here. 
We  are  not  made  like  the  Spaniards,  to  let 
our  consciences  be  tyrannized  over.  The 
nobles  must  look  to  it,  and  clip  its  wings  be- 
times. 

Jetter.  It  is  a great  bore.  Whenever  it 
comes  into  their  worships’  heads  to  break  into 
my  house,  and  I am  sitting  there  at  my  work, 
humming  a French  psalm,  thinking  nothing 
about  it,  neither  good  nor  bad — singing  it  just 
because  it  is  in  my  throat ; — forthwith  I’m  a 
heretic,  and  am  clapped  into  prison.  Or  if  I 


>93 


am  passing  througli  the  country,  and  stand 
near  a crowd  listening  to  a new  preaclier,  one 
of  those  who  have  come  from  (}ermany,  in- 
stantly I’m  called  a rebel,  and  am  in  danger 
of  losing  my  head  ! Have  yon  ever  heard 
one  of  these  j)reachers  ? 

SoEST.  Brave  fellows ! Not  long  ago  I 
heard  one  of  them  preach  in  a field  before 
thousands  and  thousands  of  peoi)le.  A dif- 
ferent sort  of  dish  he  gave  us  from  that  of  our 
humdrum  preachers,  who,  from  the  pulpit, 
choke  their  hearers  with  scraps  of  Latin.  He 
spoke  from  his  heart ; told  us  how  we  had  till 
now  been  led  by  the  nose,  how  we  had  been 
kept  in  darkness,  and  how  we  might  procure 
more  lieht  ; — ay,  and  he  proved  it  all  out  of 
the  Bible. 

Jetter.  There  may  be  something  in  it. 
I always  said  as  much,  and  have  often  pon- 
dered over  the  matter.  It  has  long  been  run- 
ning in  my  head. 

Buvck.  All  the  people  run  after  them. 

SoEST.  No  wonder,  since  they  hear  both 
what  is  good  and  what  is  new. 

Jetter.  And  what  is  it  all  about?  Surely 
they  might  let  every  one  preach  after  his  own 
fashion. 

Buvck.  Come,  sirs  ! While  you  are  talk- 
ing, \'ou  forget  the  wine  and  the  Prince  of 
Orange. 

Jetter.  We  must  not  forget  him.  He’s  a 
very  wall  of  defence.  In  thinking  of  him, 
one  fancies  that  if  one  could  only  hide  behind 
him,  the  devil  himself  could  not  get  at  one. 
Here’s  to  William  of  Orange  ! Hurrah  ! 

All.  Hurrah  ! hurrah  ! 

SoEST.  Now,  graybeard,  let’s  have  your 
toast. 

Ruysum.  Here’s  to  old  soldiers  ! To  all 
soldiers  ! AVar  forever  ! 

Buvck.  Bravo,  old  fellow.  Here’s  to  all 
soldiers.  War  forever  ! 

Jetter.  War!  war!  Do  ye  know  what 
ye  are  shouting  about?  That  it  should  slip 
glibly  from  your  tongue  is  natural  enough  ; 
but  what  wretched  work  it  is  for  us,  I have 
not  words  to  tell  you.  To  be  stunned  the 
whole  year  round  by  the  beating  of  the 
drum  ; to  hear  of  nothing  except  how  one 
troop  marched  here,  and  another  there ; how 
they  came  over  this  height,  and  halted  near 
that  mill ; how  many  were  left  dead  on  this 
field,  and  how  many  on  that ; how  they  press 
forward,  and  how  one  wins,  and  another  loses, 
without  being  able  to  comjrrehend  what  they 
are  fighting  about ; how  a town  is  taken,  how 


the  citizens  are  put  to  the  sword,  and  how  it 
fares  with  the  poor  women  and  innocent  chil- 
dren. This  is  a grief  and  a trouble,  and  then 
one  thinks  every  moment,  “ Here  they  come  ! 
It  will  be  our  turn  next.” 

SoEST.  Therefore  every  citizen  must  be 
pradtised  in  the  use  of  arms. 

Jetter.  Fine  talking,  indeed,  for  him  who 
has  a wife  and  children.  And  yet  I would 
rather  hear  of  soldiers  than  see  them. 

Buvck.  I might  take  offence  at  that. 

Jetter.  It  was  not  intended  for  you, 
countryman.  When  we  got  rid  of  the  Span- 
ish garri.son,  we  breathed  freely  again. 

SoEST.  Faith  ! They  pressed  on  you  heav- 
ily enough. 

Jetter.  Mind  your  own  business. 

SoEST.  They  came  to  sharp  quarters  with 
you. 

Jetter.  Hold  your  tongue. 

SoEST.  They  drove  him  out  of  kitchen, 
cellar,  chamber — and  bed.  \_They  laugh. 

Jetter.  You  are  a blockhead. 

Buvck.  Peace,  sirs  ! Must  the  soldier  cry- 
peace?  Since  you  will  not  hear  anything 
about  us,  let  us  have  a toast  of  your  own — a 
citizen’s  toast. 

Jetter.  We’re  all  ready  for  that ! Safety 
and  peace ! 

SoEST.  Order  and  freedom  1 

Buvck.  Bravo  ! That  will  content  us  all. 

[77/cr  ring  their  glasses  together,  ami  Joy- 
ously repeat  the  words,  hut  in  such  a man- 
ner that  each  utters  a different  sound,  ami 
it  becomes  a kind  of  chant.  The  old  man 
listens,  and  at  length  joins  in. 

All.  Safety  and  peace  ! Order  and  free- 
dom ! 


SCENE  II. — Palace  of  the  Regent. 

Margaret  of  Parma  (in  a hunting  dress). 

Courtiers,  Pages,  Servants. 

Regent.  Put  off  the  hunt,  I shall  not  ride 
to-day.  Bid  Machiavel  attend  me. 

\_Exeunt  all  but  the  Regent. 

The  thought  of  these  terrible  events  leaves 
me  no  repose  ! Nothing  can  amuse,  nothing 
divert  my  mind.  These  images,  these  cares 
are  always  before  me.  The  king  will  now  say 
that  these  are  the  natural  fruits  of  my  kind- 
ness, of  my  clemency  ; yet  my  conscience  as- 
sures me  that  I have  adopted  the  wisest,  the 


( 

\ 


\ 


I 

s 


194 


ARTIST  : C.  HABERLIN. 

EGMONT.  ACT  I,  SCENE  II, 


MAKGAKEl  OF  FARMA  AND  MACHIAVEL. 


most  prudent  course.  Ought  I sooner  to  have 
kindled,  and  spread  abroad  these  flames  with 
the  breath  of  wrath  ? My  hope  was  to  keep 
them  in,  to  let  them  smoulder  in  their  own 
ashes.  Yes,  my  inward  convidtion,  and  my 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances,  justify  my 
condudt  in  my  own  eyes ; but  in  what  light 
will  it  appear  to  my  brother  ! For,  can  it  be 
denied  that  the  insolence  of  these  foreign 
teachers  waxes  daily  more  audacious  ? They 
have  desecrated  our  sandluaries,  unsettled  the 
dull  minds  of  the  people,  and  conjured  up 
amongst  them  a spirit  of  delusion.  Impure 
spirits  have  mingled  among  the  insurgents, 
horrible  deeds  have  been  perpetrated,  which 
to  think  of  makes  one  shudder,  and  of  these 
a circumstantial  account  must  be  transmitted 
instantly  to  court.  Prompt  and  minute  must 
be  my  communication,  lest  rumor  outrun  my 
messenger,  and  the  king  suspedl  that  some 
particulars  have  been  purposely  withheld.  I 
can  see  no  means,  severe  or  mild,  by  which 
to  stem  the  evil.  Oh,  what  are  we  great  ones 
on  the  waves  of  humanity?  We  think  to 
control  them,  and  are  ourselves  driven  to  and 
fro,  hither  and  thither. 

Enter  Machiavel. 

Regent.  Are  the  despatches  to  the  king 
prepared  ? 

Machiavel.  In  an  hour  they  will  be  ready 
for  your  signature. 

Regent.  Have  you  made  the  report  suf- 
ficiently circumstantial. 

Machlavel.  Full  and  circumstantial,  as 
the  king  loves  to  have  it.  I relate  how  the 
rage  of  the  iconoclasts  first  broke  out  at  St. 
Omer ; how  a furious  multitude,  with  staves, 
hatchets,  hammers,  ladders  and  cords,  accom- 
panied by  a few  armed  men,  first  assailed  the 
chapels,  churches  and  convents,  drove  out  the 
worshippers,  forced  the  barred  gates,  threw 
everything  into  confusion,  tore  down  the 
altars,  destroyed  the  statues  of  the  saints, 
defaced  the  pidlures,  and  dashed  to  atoms, 
and  trampled  under  foot,  whatever  came  in 
their  way  that  was  consecrated  and  holy. 
How  the  crowd  increased  as  it  advanced,  and 
how  the  inhabitants  of  Ypres  opened  their 
gates  at  its  approach.  How,  with  incredible 
rapidity,  they  demolished  the  cathedral,  and 
burned  the  library  of  the  bishop.  How  a 
vast  multitude,  possessed  by  the  like  frenzy, 
dispersed  themselves  through  Menin,  Comines, 
Verviers,  Lille,  and  nowhere  encountered  op- 
position ; and  how,  through  almost  the  whole 


of  Flanders,  in  a single  moment,  the  mon- 
strous conspiracy  declared  itself,  and  was  ac- 
complished. 

Regent.  Alas!  Your  recital  rends  my 
heart  anew ; and  the  fear  that  the  evil  will 
wax  greater  and  greater,  adds  to  my  grief. 
Tell  me  your  thoughts,  Machiavel ! 

Machiavel.  Pardon  me,  your  Highness, 
my  thoughts  will  appear  to  you  but  as  idle 
fancies ; and  though  you  always  seem  well 
satisfied  with  my  services,  you  have  seldom 
felt  inclined  to  follow  my  advice.  How  often 
have  you  said  in  jest;  “You  see  too  far, 
Machiavel ! You  should  be  an  historian  ; he 
who  acts  must  provide  for  the  exigence  of 
the  hour.’’  And  yet,  have  I not  predidled 
this  terrible  history  ? Have  I not  foreseen  it 
all? 

Regent.  I too  foresee  many  things,  with- 
out being  able  to  avert  them. 

Machiavel.  In  one  word,  then: — you  will 
not  be  able  to  suppress  the  new  faith.  Let  it 
be  recognized,  separate  its  votaries  from  the 
true  believers,  give  them  churches  of  their 
own,  include  them  within  the  pale  of  social 
order,  subjedt  them  to  the  restraints  of  law, — 
do  this,  and  you  will  at  once  tranquillize  the 
insurgents.  All  other  measures  will  prove 
abortive,  and  you  will  depopulate  the  coun- 
try. 

Regent.  Have  you  forgotten  with  what 
aversion  the  mere  suggestion  of  toleration  was 
rejedled  by  my  brother?  Know  you  not,  how 
in  every  letter  he  urgently  recommends  to  me 
the  maintenance  of  the  true  faith  ? That  he 
will  not  hear  of  tranquillity  and  order  being 
restored  at  the  expense  of  religion  ? Even  in 
the  provinces,  does  he  not  maintain  spies,  un- 
known to  us,  in  order  to  ascertain  who  inclines 
to  the  new  doctrines?  Has  he  not,  to  our 
astonishment,  named  to  us  this  or  that  indi- 
vidual residing  in  our  very  neighborhood, 
who,  without  its  being  known,  was  obnoxious 
to  the  charge  of  heresy  ? Does  he  not  enjoin 
harshness  and  severity  ? and  am  I to  be  le- 
nient? Am  I to  recommend  for  his  adop- 
tion measures  of  indulgence  and  toleration  ? 
Should  I not  thus  lose  all  credit  with  him,  and 
at  once  forfeit  his  confidence? 

M.achiavel.  I know  it.  The  king  com- 
mands and  puts  you  in  full  possession  of  his 
intentions.  You  are  to  restore  tranquillity 
and  peace  by  measures  which  cannot  fail  still 
more  to  embitter  men’s  minds,  and  which 
must  inevitably  kindle  the  flames  of  war  from 
one  extremity  of  the  country  to  the  other. 


19s 


Consider  well  wliat  yon  are  doing.  The  prin- 
cipal merchants  are  infedted — nobles,  citizens, 
soldiers.  What  avails  persisting  in  our  opin- 
ion, when  everything  is  changing  around  us? 
Oh,  that  some  good  genius  would  suggest  to 
Philip  that  it  better  becomes  a monarch  to 
govern  burghers  of  two  different  creeds,  than 
to  excite  them  to  mutual  destrudtion  ! 

Regent.  Never  let  me  hear  such  words 
again.  Pull  well  I know  that  the  policy  of 
statesmen  rarely  maintains  truth  and  fidelity  ; 
that  it  excludes  from  the  heart  candor,  charity, 
toleration.  In  secular  affairs,  this  is,  alas! 
only  too  true;  but  shall  we  trifle  with  God  as 
we  do  with  each  other?  Shall  we  be  indif- 
ferent to  our  established  faith,  for  the  sake  of 
which  so  many  have  sacrificed  their  lives  ? 
Shall  we  abandon  it  to  these  far-fetched,  un- 
certain, and  self-contradidling  heresies? 

Machiavel.  Think  not  the  worse  of  me 
for  what  I have  uttered. 

Regent.  I know  you  and  your  fidelity. 
I know  too  that  a man  may  be  both  honest 
and  sagacious,  and  yet  miss  the  best  and  near- 
est way  to  the  salvation  of  his  soul.  There 
are  others,  Machiavel,  men  whom  I esteem, 
yet  whom  I needs  must  blame. 

Machiavel.  To  whom  do  you  refer? 

Regent.  I must  confess  that  Egmont 

caused  me  to-day  deep  and  heartfelt  annoy- 
ance. 

Machiavel.  How  so? 

Regent.  By  his  accustomed  demeanor, 

his  usual  indifference  and  levity.  I received 
the  fatal  tidings  as  I was  leaving  church,  at- 
tended by  him  and  .several  others.  I did  not 
restrain  my  anguish,  I broke  forth  into  lamen- 
tations, loud  and  deep,  and  turning  to  him, 
exclaimed,  “See  what  is  going  on  in  your 
province  I Do  you  suffer  it.  Count,  you,  in 
whom  the  king  confided  so  implicitly?” 

Machiavel.  And  what  was  his  re])ly? 

Regent.  As  if  it  were  a mere  trifle,  an 
affair  of  no  moment,  he  answered:  “Were 
the  Netherlanders  but  satisfied  as  to  their 
constitution  ! The  rest  would  soon  follow.” 

Machiavel.  There  was,  perhaps,  more 
truth  than  discretion  or  piety  in  his  words. 
How  can  we  hope  to  acquire  and  to  maintain 
the  confidence  of  the  Netherlander,  when  he 
sees  that  we  are  more  interested  in  appro- 
priating his  possessions  than  in  promoting 
his  welfare,  temporal  or  spiritual?  Does  the 
number  of  souls  saved  by  the  new  bishops 
exceed  that  of  the  fat  benefices  they  have 
swallowed  ? And  are  they  not  for  the  most 


part  foreigners  ? As  yet,  the  office  of  stadt- 
holder  has  been  held  by  Netherlanders ; but 
do  not  the  Spaniards  betray  their  great  and 
irresistible  desire  to  possess  themselves  of 
these  places?  Will  not  people  prefer  being 
governed  by  their  own  countrymen,  and  ac- 
cording to  their  ancient  customs,  rather  than 
by  foreigners,  who,  from  their  first  entrance 
into  the  land,  endeavor  to  enrich  themselves 
at  the  general  expense,  who  measure  every- 
thing by  a foreign  standard,  and  who  exercise 
their  authority  without  cordiality  or  sym- 
pathy ? 

Regent.  You  take  part  with  our  oppo- 
nents ? 

Machiavel.  Assuredly  not  in  my  heart. 
Would  that  with  my  understanding  I could  be 
wholly  on  our  side  ! 

Regent.  If  such  your  disposition,  it  were 
better  I should  resign  the  regency  to  them  ; 
for  both  Egmont  and  Orange  entertained  great 
hopes  of  occupying  this  position.  Then  they 
were  adversaries,  now  they  are  leagued  against 
me,  and  have  become  friends — inseparable 
friends. 

Machiavel.  A dangerous  pair. 

Regent.  To  speak  candidly,  I fear  Orange. 
— I fear  for  Egmont. — Orange  meditates  some 
dangerous  scheme,  his  thoughts  are  far-reach- 
ing, he  is  reserved,  appears  to  accede  to  every- 
thing, never  contradidls,  and  while  maintain- 
ing the  show  of  reverence,  with  clear  foresight 
accomplishes  his  own  designs. 

Machiavel.  Egmont,  on  the  contrary, 
advances  with  a bold  step,  as  if  the  world 
were  all  his  own. 

Regent.  He  bears  his  head  as  proudly  as 
if  the  hand  of  majesty  were  not  suspended 
over  him. 

Machiavel.  The  eyes  of  all  the  people  are 
fixed  upon  him,  and  he  is  the  idol  of  their 
hearts. 

Regent.  He  has  never  assumed  the  least 
disguise,  and  carries  himself  as  if  no  one  had 
a right  to  call  him  to  account.  He  still  bears 
the  name  of  Egmont.  Count  Egmont  is  the 
title  by  which  he  loves  to  hear  himself  ad- 
dressed, as  though  he  would  fain  be  reminded 
that  his  ancestors  were  masters  of  Guelder- 
land.  Why  does  he  not  assume  his  proper 
title, — Prince  of  Gaure?  What  objedi  has  he 
in  view?  Would  he  again  revive  extinguished 
claims  ? 

Machiavel.  I hold  him  for  a faithful  ser- 
vant of  the  king. 

Regent.  Were  he  so  inclined,  what  im- 


196 


portant  service  could  he  not  render  to  the 
government  ? Whereas  now,  without  benefit- 
ing himself,  he  has  caused  us  unspeakable 
vexation.  His  banquets  and  entertainments 
have  done  more  to  unite  the  nobles  and  to 
knit  them  together  than  the  most  dangerous 
secret  associations.  Witii  his  toasts,  his  guests 
have  drunk  in  a permanent  intoxication,  a 
giddy  frenzy,  that  never  subsides.  How  often 
have  his  facetious  jests  stirred  up  the  minds 
of  the  populace  ? and  what  an  excitement 
was  produced  among  the  mob  by  the  new 
liveries,  and  the  extravagant  devices  of  his 
followers  ! 

Machiavel.  I am  convinced  he  had  no  de- 
sign. 

Regent.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  bad 
enough.  As  I said  before,  he  injures  us  with- 
out benefiting  himself.  He  treats  as  a jest 
matters  of  serious  import ; and,  not  to  appear 
negligent  and  remiss,  we  are  forced  to  treat 
seriously  what  he  intended  as  a jest.  Thus 
one  urges  on  the  other ; and  what  we  are 
endeavoring  to  avert  is  adlually  brought  to 
pass.  He  is  more  dangerous  than  the  acknow- 
ledged head  of  a conspiracy ; and  I am  much 
mistaken  if  it  is  not  all  remembered  against 
him  at  court.  I cannot  deny  that  scarcely  a 
day  passes  in  which  he  does  not  wound  me — 
deeply  wound  me. 

Machiavel.  He  appears  to  me  to  a6l  on 
all  occasions  according  to  the  didlates  of  his 
conscience. 

Regent.  His  conscience  has  a convenient 
mirror.  His  demeanor  is  often  offensive.  He 
carries  himself  as  if  he  felt  he  were  the  master 
here,  and  were  withheld  by  courtesy  alone 
from  making  us  feel  his  supremacy ; as  if  he 
would  not  exadlly  drive  us  out  of  the  country; 
there’ll  be  no  need  for  that. 

Machiavel.  I entreat  you,  put  not  too 
harsh  a construdlion  upon  his  frank  and  joyous 
temper,  which  treats  lightly  matters  of  serious 
moment.  You  but  injure  yourself  and  him. 

Regent.  I interpret  nothing.  I speak 
only  of  inevitable  consequences,  and  I know 
him.  His  patent  of  nobility  and  the  Golden 
Fleece  upon  his  breast  strengthen  his  confi- 
dence, his  audacity.  Both  can  protedl  him 
against  any  sudden  outbreak  of  royal  dis- 
pleasure. Consider  the  matter  closely,  and 
he  is  alone  responsible  for  the  whole  mischief 
that  has  broken  out  in  Flanders.  From  the 
first,  he  connived  at  the  proceedings  of  the 
foreign  teachers,  avoided  stringent  measures, 
and  perhaps  rejoiced  in  secret  that  they  gave 


us  so  much  to  do.  Let  me  alone  ; on  this 
occasion  I will  give  utterance  to  that  which 
weighs  upon  my  heart ; I will  not  shoot  my 
arrow  in  vain.  1 know  where  he  is  vulnerable. 
For  he  is  vulnerable. 

Machiavel.  Have  you  summoned  the 
council?  Will  Orange  attend? 

Regent.  I have  sent  for  him  to  Antwerp. 
I will  lay  upon  their  shoulders  the  burden  of 
responsibility ; they  shall  either  strenuously 
co-operate  with  me  in  quelling  the  evil,  or  at 
once  declare  themselves  rebels.  Let  the  letters 
be  completed  without  delay,  and  bring  them 
for  my  signature.  Then  hasten  to  despatch 
the  trusty  Vasca  to  Madrid ; he  is  faithful  and 
indefatigable ; let  him  use  all  diligence,  that 
he  may  not  be  anticipated  by  common  report, 
that  my  brother  may  receive  the  intelligence 
first  through  him.  I will  myself  speak  with 
him  ere  he  departs. 

Machiavel.  Your  orders  shall  be  promptly 
and  pundlually  obeyed. 


SCENE  III. — Citizen' s House. 

Clara,  her  Mother,  Brackenburg. 

Clara.  Will  you  not  hold  the  yarn  for 
me,  Brackenburg? 

Brackenburg.  I entreat  you,  excuse  me, 
Clara. 

Clara.  What  ails  you?  Why  refuse  me 
this  trifling  service  ? 

Brackenburg.  When  I hold  the  yarn,  I 
stand  as  it  were  spell-bound  before  you,  and 
cannot  escape  your  eyes. 

Clara.  Nonsense  ! Come  and  hold  ! 

Mother.  ( Knitting  in  her  arm-chair.)  Give 
us  a song ! Brackenburg  sings  so  good  a 
second.  You  used  to  be  merry  once,  and  I 
had  always  something  to  laugh  at. 

Brackenburg.  Once ! 

Clara.  Well,  let  us  sing. 

Brackenburg.  As  you  please. 

Clara.  Merrily,  then,  and  sing  away  ! 
’Tis  a soldier’s  song,  my  favorite. 

\_She  winds  yarn,  and  sings  ivith  Bracken- 
burg. 

The  drum  is  resounding. 

And  shrill  the  fife  plays ; 

My  love,  for  the  battle. 

His  brave  troop  arrays ; 

He  lifts  his  lance  high. 

And  the  people  he  sways. 


197 


My  blood  it  is  boiling  ! 

M)’  heart  throbs  pit-pat  ! 

Oh,  had  I a jacket, 

^Vith  hose  and  with  hat  ! 

How  boldly  I’d  follow. 

And  march  through  the  gate  ; 

Through  all  the  wide  province 
I’d  follow  him  straight. 

The  foe  yield,  we  capture 
Or  shoot  them  ! Ah,  me  ! 

What  heart-thrilling  rapture 
A soldier  to  be  ! 

\^During  the  song,  Brackenburg  has  fre- 
quently looked  at  Clara  ; at  length  his  voice 
falters,  his  eyes  fill  with  tears,  he  lets  the  skein 
fall  and  goes  to  the  window.  Clara  finishes 
the  song  alone,  her  mother  motions  to  her,  half 
displeased,  she  rises,  advances  a few  steps  to- 
wards  him,  turns  hack,  as  if  irresolute,  and 
again  sits  dotvn. 

Mother.  What  is  going  on  in  the  street, 
Brackenburg?  I hear  soldiers  marching. 

Brackenburg.  It  is  the  Regent’s  body- 
guard. 

Clar.a.  At  this  hour?  What  can  it  mean? 
( She  rises  and  joins  Brackenburg  at  the 
window.)  That  is  not  the  daily  guard ; it  is 
more  numerous ! almost  all  the  troops!  Oh, 
Brackenburg,  go  I Learn  what  it  means.  It 
must  be  something  unusual.  Go,  good  Brack- 
enburg, do  me  this  favor. 

Brackenburg.  I am  going  ! I will  return 
immediately. 

{^He  offers  his  hand  to  Clara,  and  she  gives 
him  hers.  Exit  Brackenburg. 

Mother.  Thou  sendest  him  away  so  soon  ! 

Clara.  I am  curious;  and,  besides — do 
not  be  angry,  mother — his  presence  pains  me. 
I never  know  how  I ought  to  behave  towards 
him.  I have  done  him  a wrong,  and  it  goes 
to  my  very  heart  to  see  how  deeply  he  feels  it. 
Well,  it  can’t  be  helped  now  ! 

Mother.  He  is  such  a true-hearted  fellow  1 

Clara.  I cannot  help  it,  I must  treat  him 
kindly.  Often,  without  a thought,  I return 
the  gentle,  loving  pressure  of  his  hand.  I re- 
proach myself  that  I am  deceiving  him,  that  I 
am  nourishing  in  his  heart  a vain  hope.  I am 
in  a sad  plight ! God  knows,  I do  not  will- 
ingly deceive  him.  I do  not  wish  him  to  hope, 
yet  I cannot  let  him  despair  ! 

Mother.  That  is  not  as  it  should  be. 

Clara.  I liked  him  once,  and  in  my  soul  I 
like  him  still.  I could  have  married  him  ; yet 
I believe  I was  never  really  in  love  with  him. 


Mother.  Thou  would’st  always  have  been 
happy  with  him. 

Clara.  I should  have  been  provided  for, 
and  have  led  a quiet  life. 

Mother.  And  through  thy  fault  it  has  all 
been  trifled  away. 

Clara.  I am  in  a strange  position.  When 
I think  how  it  has  come  to  pass,  I know  it, 
indeed,  and  I know  it  not.  But  I have  only 
to  look  upon  Egmont,  and  I understand  it  all; 
ay,  and  stranger  things  would  seem  natural 
then.  Oh,  what  a man  he  is  ! All  the  prov- 
inces worship  him.  And  in  his  arms,  should 
I not  be  the  happiest  creature  in  the  world  ? 

Mother.  And  how  will  it  be  in  the  future? 

Clara.  I only  ask,  does  he  love  me? — 
does  he  love  me? — as  if  there  were  any  doubt 
about  it. 

Mother.  One  has  nothing  but  anxiety  of 
heart  with  one’s  children.  Always  care  and 
sorrow,  whatever  may  be  the  end  of  it  I It 
cannot  come  to  good  ! Thou  hast  made  thy- 
self wretched  I Thou  hast  made  thy  mother 
wretched  too. 

Clara.  ( Quietly.)  Yet  thou  didst  allow 
it  in  the  beginning. 

Mother.  Alas  ! I was  too  indulgent ; I 
am  always  too  indulgent. 

Clara.  When  Egmont  rode  by,  and  I ran 
to  the  window',  did  you  chide  me  then  ? Did 
you  not  come  to  the  window  yourself?  When 
he  looked  up,  smiled,  nodded  and  greeted  me, 
was  it  displeasing  to  you?  Did  you  not  feel 
yourself  honored  in  your  daughter? 

Mother.  Go  on  with  your  reproaches. 

Clara.  ( Hh'th  emotion. ) Then,  when  he 
passed  more  frequently,  and  we  felt  sure  that 
it  was  on  my  account  that  he  came  this  way, 
did  you  not  remark  it  yourself  wuth  secret  joy? 
Did  you  call  me  away  when  I stood  behind 
the  w'indow-pane  and  awaited  him  ? 

Mother.  Could  I imagine  that  it  would 
go  so  far? 

Clara.  ( With  faltering  voice  and  repressed 
tears.)  And  then,  one  evening,  w'hen,  envel- 
oped in  his  mantle,  he  surprised  us  as  we  sat 
at  our  lamp,  who  busied  herself  in  receiving 
him,  w'hile  I remained  lost  in  astonishment, 
as  if  fastened  to  my  chair? 

Mother.  Could  I imagine  that  the  pru- 
dent Clara  would  so  soon  be  carried  aw'ay  by 
this  unhappy  love?  I must  now' endure  that 
my  daughter — ■ 

Clara.  (Bursting  into  tears.)  Mother! 
How'  can  you?  You  take  pleasure  in  torment- 
ing me  ! 


198 


Mother.  ( Weeping.)  Ay,  weep  away ! 
Make  me  yet  more  wretrlied  by  thy  grief.  Is 
it  not  misery  enough  that  my  only  daughter  is 
a castaway? 

Clara.  (Rising,  and  speaking  coldly.)  A 
castaway  ! 'I'he  beloved  of  Egmont  a castaway  ! 
— What  jjrincess  would  not  envy  the  ])oor 
Clara  a place  in  his  heart?  Oh,  mother, — 
my  own  mother,  you  were  not  wont  to  speak 
thus  ! Dear  mother,  be  kind  ! — I.et  the  people 
think,  let  the  neighbors  whisper  what  they 
like — this  chamber,  this  lowly  house  is  a para- 
dise, since  Egmont’s  love  dwelt  here. 

Mother.  One  cannot  hel])  liking  him, 
that  is  true.  He  is  always  so  kind,  frank  and 
open-hearted. 

Clara.  'I'here  is  not  a dro]i  of  false  blood 


in  his  veins.  And  then,  mother,  he  is  indeed 
the  great  Figmont ; yet,  when  he  comes  to  me, 
how  tender  he  is,  how  kind  ! How  he  tries 
to  conceal  from  me  his  rank,  his  bravery ! 
How  anxious  he  is  about  me  ! so  entirely  the 
man,  the  friend,  the  lover. 

Mother.  Do  you  expedt  him  to-day? 

Clara.  Have  you  not  seen  how  often  I go 
to  the  window?  Have  you  not  noticed  how 
I listen  to  every  noise  at  the  door? — 'I'hough 
I know  that  he  will  not  come  before  night, 
yet,  from  the  time  when  I rise  in  the  morning, 
I keep  exjjedling  him  every  moment.  Were 
I but  a boy,  to  follow  him  always,  to  tlie  court 
and  everywhere  ! Could  I but  carry  his  colors 
in  the  field  ! — 

Mother.  You  were  always  such  a lively, 


199 


restless  creature — even  as  a little  child,  now 
wild,  now  thoughtful.  Will  you  not  dress 
yourself  a little  better  ? 

Clara.  Perhaps,  mother,  if  I want  some- 
thing to  do.— Yesterday,  some  of  his  people 
went  by,  singing  songs  in  his  honor.  At  least 
his  name  was  in  the  songs ! The  rest  I could 
not  understand.  My  heart  leaped  uj)  into  my 
throat, — I would  fain  have  called  them  back 
if  I had  not  felt  ashamed. 

Mother.  Take  care  ! Thy  impetuous  na- 
ture will  ruin  all.  Thou  wilt  betray  thyself 
before  the  people ; as,  not  long  ago,  at  thy 
cousin’s,  when  thou  foundest  out  the  woodcut 
with  the  description,  and  didst  exclaim,  with 
a cry:  “Count  Egmont?’’ — I grew  as  red  as 
fire. 

Clara.  Could  I help  crying  out?  It  was 
the  battle  of  Gravelines,  and  I found  in  the 
j)icture  the  letter  C,  and  then  looked  for  it  in 
the  description  below.  There  it  stood,  “ Count 
Egmont,  with  his  horse  shot  under  him.’’  I 
shuddered,  and  afterwards  I could  not  help 
laughing  at  the  woodcut  figure  of  Egmont,  as 
tall  as  the  neighboring  tower  of  Gravelines, 
and  the  English  ships  at  the  side. — When  I 
remember  how  I used  to  conceive  of  a battle, 
and  what  an  idea  I had,  as  a girl,  of  Count 
Egmont ; when  I listened  to  descriptions  of 
him,  and  of  all  the  other  earls  and  princes  ; — 
and  think  how  it  is  with  me  now  ! 


Enter  Brackenburg. 

Clara.  Well,  what  is  going  on? 

Brackenburg.  Nothing  certain  is  known. 
It  is  rumored  that  an  insurredlion  has  lately 
broken  out  in  Flanders ; the  Regent  is  afraid 
of  its  spreading  here.  The  castle  is  strongly 
garrisoned,  the  burghers  are  crowding  to  the 
gates,  and  the  streets  are  thronged  with  people. 
I will  hasten  at  once  to  my  old  father.  {As 
if  about  to  go.) 

Clara.  Shall  we  see  you  to-morrow  ? I 
must  change  my  dress  a little.  I am  expedl- 
ing  my  cousin,  and  I look  too  untidy.  Come, 
mother,  help  me  a moment.  Take  the  book, 
Brackenburg,  and  bring  me  such  another 
story. 

Mother.  Farewell ! 

Brackenburg.  (Extending  his  hand.) 
Your  hand  ! 

Clara.  ( Refusing  hers.)  When  you  come 
next.  (^Exeunt  Mother  and  Daughter. 

Brackenburg.  (Alone.)  I had  resolved 
to  go  away  again  at  once  ; and  yet,  when  she 
takes  me  at  my  word,  and  lets  me  leave  her, 
I feel  as  if  I could  go  mad. — Wretched  man  ! 
Does  the  fate  of  thy  fatherland,  does  the  grow- 
ing disturbance  fail  to  move  thee  ? — Are  coun- 
tryman and  Spaniard  the  same  to  thee  ? and 
carest  thou  not  who  rules,  and  who  is  in  the 
right  ? — I was  a different  sort  of  fellow  as  a 


200 


school-boy!  Then,  when  an  exercise  in  ora- 
tory was  given — “ Brutus’  Speech  for  Liberty,” 
for  instance, — Fritz  was  ever  the  first,  and  the 
re6lor  would  say:  “If  it  were  only  spoken 
more  deliberately,  the  words  not  all  huddled 
together.” — Then  my  blood  boiled,  and 
longed  for  adlion. — Now  I drag  along,  bound 
by  the  eyes  of  a maiden.  I cannot  leave  her! 
yet  she,  alas,  cannot  love  me  ! — ah— no — she 
— she  cannot  have  entirely  rejedled  me — not 
entirely— yet  half  love  is  no  love! — I will 
endure  it  no  longer  ! — Can  it  be  true  what  a 
friend  lately  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  she 
secretly  admits  a man  into  the  house  by  night, 
when  she  always  sends  me  away  modestly  be- 
fore evening?  No,  it  cannot  be  true  ! It  is 
a lie ! A base,  slanderous  lie  ! Clara  is  as 
innocent  as  I am  wretched. — She  has  rejedled 
me,  has  thrust  me  from  her  heart— and  shall  I 
live  on  thus  ? I cannot,  I will  not  endure  it. 
Already  my  native  land  is  convulsed  by  inter- 
nal strife,  and  do  I perish  abjedtly  amid  the 
tumult  ? I will  not  endure  it  ! When  the 
trumpet  sounds,  when  a shot  falls,  it  thrills 
through  my  bone  and  marrow  ! But,  alas,  it 


does  not  rouse  me  ! It  does  not  summon  me 
to  join  the  onslaught,  to  rescue,  to  dare. — 
Wretched,  degrading  position  ! Better  end 
it  at  once!  Not  long  ago,  I threw  myself  into 
the  water ; I sank — but  nature  in  her  agony 
was  too  strong  for  me  ; I felt  that  I could 
swim,  and  saved  myself  against  my  will. 
Could  I but  forget  the  time  when  she  loved 
me,  seemed  to  love  me  ! — Why  has  this  hap- 
piness penetrated  my  very  bone  and  marrow  ? 
Why  have  these  hopes,  while  disclosing  to  me 
a distant  paradise,  consumed  all  the  enjoyment 
of  life? — And  that  first,  that  only  kiss! — 
Here  ( laying  his  hand  upon  the  table),  here  we 
were  alone,— she  had  always  been  kind  and 
friendly  towards  me, — then  she  seemed  to 
soften,- — she  looked  at  me, — my  brain  reeled, 
— I felt  her  lips  on  mine, — and — and  now? — 
Die,  wretch!  Why  dost  thou  hesitate?  (He 
drauts  a phial  from  his  pocket.)  I’hou  healing 
poison,  it  shall  not  have  been  in  vain  that  I 
stole  thee  from  my  brother’s  medicine  chest ! 
From  this  anxious  fear,  this  dizziness,  this 
death-agony,  thou  shalt  deliver  me  at  once. 


201 


ACT  IT 


SCENE  I. — Square  in  Brussels. 
Jetter  and  a Master  Carpenter  (meeting). 

Carpenter.  Did  I not  tell  you  before- 
hand? Eight  days  ago,  at  the  guild,  I said 
there  would  he  serious  disturbances  ? 

Jetter.  Is  it  then  true  that  they  have 
plundered  the  churches  in  Flanders? 

Carpenter.  They  have  utterly  destroyed 
both  churches  and  chapels.  They  have  left 
nothing  standing  hut  the  four  hare  walls. 
The  lowest  rabble  ! And  this  it  is  that  dam- 
ages our  good  cause.  We  ought  rather  to 
have  laid  our  claims  before  the  Regent,  for- 
mally and  decidedly,  and  then  have  stood  by 
them.  If  we  speak  now,  if  we  assemble  now, 
it  will  be  said  that  we  are  joining  the  insur- 
gents. 

Jetter.  Ay,  so  every  one  thinks  at  first. 
Why  should  you  thrust  your  nose  into  the 
mess?  The  neck  is  closely  connedted  with  it. 

Carpenter.  I am  always  uneasy  when 
tumults  arise  among  the  mob — among  people 
who  have  nothing  to  lose.  They  use  as  a 
pretext  that  to  which  we  also  must  appeal,  and 
plunge  the  country  in  misery. 

E?iter  Soest. 

Soest.  Good-day,  sirs  ! What  news  ? Is 
it  true  that  the  image-breakers  are  coming 
straight  in  this  diredlion  ? 

Carpenter.  Here  they  shall  touch  nothing, 
at  any  rate. 


Soest.  A soldier  came  into  my  shop  just 
now  to  buy  tobacco ; I questioned  him  about 
the  matter.  The  Regent,  though  so  brave  and 
prudent  a lad_\',  has  for  once  lost  her  presence 
of  mind.  Things  must  be  bad  indeed  when 
she  thus  takes  refuge  behind  her  guards.  The 
castle  is  strongly  garrisoned.  It  is  even  ru- 
mored that  she  means  to  fly  from  the  town. 

Carpenter.  Forth  she  shall  not  go  ! Her 
presence  protedls  us,  and  we  will  insure  her 
safety  better  than  her  mustachioed  gentry.  If 
she  only  maintains  our  rights  and  privileges, 
we  will  stand  faithfully  by  her. 

Enter  a Soapboiler. 

Soapboiler.  An  ugly  business  this  ! a bad 
business!  Troubles  are  beginning  ; all  things 
are  going  wrong  ! Mind  you  keep  quiet,  or 
they’ll  take  you  also  for  rioters. 

Soest.  Here  come  the  seven  wise  men  of 
Greece. 

Soapboiler.  I know  there  are  many  who 
in  secret  hold  with  the  Calvinists,  abuse  the 
bishops,  and  care  not  for  the  king.  But  a 
loyal  subjedl,  a sincere  Catholic  ! — 

VBy  degrees  others  join  the  speakers,  and 
listen. 

Enter  Vansen. 

Vansen.  God  save  you,  sirs  1 What 
news  ? 

Carpenter.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  him, 
he’s  a dangerous  fellow. 


202 


Jetter.  Is  he  not  secretary  to  Dr.  Wiets? 

Carpenter.  He  has  already  had  several 
masters.  First  he  was  a clerk,  and  as  one 
patron  after  another  turned  him  off,  on  ac- 
count of  his  roguish  tricks,  he  now  dabbles  in 
the  business  of  notary  and  advocate,  and  is  a 
brandy-drinker  to  boot. 

\_AIore  people  gather  round  and  stand  in 
groups. 

Vansen.  So  here  you  are,  putting  your 
heads  together.  Well,  it  is  worth  talking 
about. 

SoEST.  I think  so  too. 

Vansen.  Now  if  only  one  of  you  had 
heart  and  another  head  enough  for  the  work, 
we  might  break  the  Spanish  fetters  at  once. 

SoEST.  Sirs  ! you  must  not  talk  thus.  We 
have  taken  our  oath  to  the  king. 

Vansen.  And  the  king  to  us.  Mark  that ! 

Jetter.  There’s  sense  in  that ! Tell  us 
your  opinion. 

Others.  Hearken  to  him ; he’s  a clever 
fellow.  He’s  sharp  enough. 

Vansen.  I had  an  old  master  once,  who 
possessed  a colledlion  of  parchments,  among 
which  were  charters  of  ancient  constitutions, 
contradfs  and  privileges.  He  set  great  store, 
too,  by  the  rarest  books.  One  of  these  con- 
tained our  whole  constitution  ; how,  at  first, 
we  Netherlanders  had  princes  of  our  own,  who 
governed  according  to  hereditary  laws,  rights 
and  usages  ; how  our  ancestors  paid  due  honor 
to  their  sovereign  so  long  as  he  governed  them 
ecjuitably  ; and  how  they  were  immediately  on 
their  guard  the  moment  he  was  for  over- 
stepping his  bounds.  The  states  were  down 
upon  him  at  once ; for  every  province,  how- 
ever small,  had  its  own  chamber  and  repre- 
sentatives. 

Carpenter.  Hold  your  tongue ! We 
knew  that  long  ago  ! Every  honest  citizen 
learns  as  much  about  the  constitution  as  he 
needs. 

Jetter.  Let  him  speak;  one  may  always 
learn  something. 

SoEST.  He  IS  quite  right. 

Several  Citizens.  Go  on  ! go  on  ! One 
does  not  hear  this  every  day. 

Vansen.  You  citizens,  forsooth  ! You 
live  only  in  the  present ; and  as  you  tamely 
follow  the  trade  inherited  from  your  fathers, 
so  you  let  the  government  do  with  you  just  as 
it  pleases.  You  make  no  inquiry  into  the 
origin,  the  history,  or  the  rights  of  a Regent ; 
and  in  consequence  of  this  negligence,  the 
Spaniard  has  drawn  the  net  over  your  ears. 


SoEST.  Who  cares  for  that,  if  one  has  only 
daily  bread  ? 

Jetter.  The  devil ! Why  did  not  some 
one  come  forward  and  tell  us  this  in  time  ? 

Vansen.  I tell  it  you  now.  The  King  of 
Spain,  whose  good  fortune  it  is  to  bear  sway 
over  these  provinces,  has  no  right  to  govern 
them  otherwise  than  the  petty  princes,  who 
formerly  possessed  them  separately.  Do  you 
understand  that  ? 

Jetter.  Explain  it  to  us. 

Vansen.  Why,  it  is  as  clear  as  the  sun. 
Must  you  not  be  governed  according  to  your 
provincial  laws?  How  comes  that? 

A Citizen.  Certainly  ! 

Vansen.  Has  not  the  burgher  of  Brussels 
a different  law  from  the  burgher  of  Antwerp  ? 
The  burgher  of  Antwerp  from  the  burgher  of 
Ghent  ? How  comes  that  ? 

Another  Citizen.  By  heaven  ! 

Vansen.  But  if  you  let  matters  run  on 
thus,  they  will  soon  tell  you  a different  story. 
Fie  on  you  ! Philip,  through  a woman,  now 
ventures  to  do  what  neither  Charles  the  Bold, 
Frederick  the  Warrior,  nor  Charles  the  Fifth 
i could  accomplish. 

SoEsT.  Yes,  yes  ! The  old  princes  tried  it 
also. 

Vansen.  Ay  ! But  our  ancestors  kept  a 
sharp  lookout.  If  they  thought  themselves 
aggrieved  by  their  sovereign,  they  would  per- 
haps get  his  son  and  heir  into  their  hands, 
detain  him  as  a hostage,  and  surrender  him 
only  on  the  most  favorable  conditions.  Our 
fathers  were  men  ! They  knew  their  own  in- 
terests ! They  knew  how  to  lay  hold  on  what 
they  wanted,  and  to  get  it  established  ! They 
were  men  of  the  right  sort ; and  hence  it  is 
that  our  privileges  are  so  clearly  defined,  our 
liberties  so  well  secured. 

SoEST.  What  are  you  saying  about  our 
liberties  ? 

All.  Our  liberties  ! our  privileges  ! Tell 
us  about  our  privileges. 

Vansen.  All  the  provinces  have  their  pe- 
culiar advantages,  but  we  of  Brabant  are  the 
most  splendidly  provided  for.  I have  read  it 
all. 

SoEST.  Say  on. 

Jetter.  Let  us  hear. 

A Citizen.  Pray  do. 

Vansen.  First,  it  stands  written  : The 
Duke  of  Brabant  shall  be  to  us  a good  and 
faithful  sovereign. 

SoEST.  Good  ! Stands  it  so  ? 

Jetter.  Faithful?  Is  that  true? 


203 


Vansen.  As  I tell  you.  He  is  bound  to  us 
as  we  are  to  him.  Secondly;  In  the  exercise 
of  his  authority  he  shall  neither  exert  arbitrary 
j)Ower,  nor  exhibit  caprice  himself,  nor  shall 
he,  either  direftly  or  indiredtly,  sandtion  them 
in  others. 

Jetter.  Bravo!  bravo!  Not  exert  arbi- 
Irarv  power. 

SoEST.  Nor  exhibit  caprice. 

.Vno'iher.  And  not  .sandlion  them  in 
ntliers  ! That  is  the  main  point.  Not  sanc- 
lion  them,  either  direftly  or  indiredlly. 


VAN.SEN.  In  express  words. 

Jetter.  Get  us  the  book. 

A Citizen.  Yes,  we  must  see  it. 

Others.  The  book  ! the  book  ! 

Another.  AVe  will  to  the  Regent  with  the 
book. 

Another.  Sir  dodtor,  you  shall  be  spokes- 
man . 

Soapboiler.  Oh,  the  dolts  ! 

O i HERS.  Something  more  out  of  the  book  ! 

Soapboiler.  I’ll  knock  his  teeth  down  his 
throat  if  he  says  another  word. 


204 


People.  We’ll  see  who  dares  to  lay  hands 
upon  him.  Tell  us  about  our  privileges ! 
Have  we  any  more  privileges? 

Vansen.  Many,  very  good  and  very  whole- 
some ones  too.  Thus  it  stands  : The  sovereign 
shall  neither  benefit  the  clergy,  nor  increase 
their  number,  without  the  consent  of  the 
nobles  and  of  the  states.  Mark  that  ! Nor 
shall  he  alter  the  constitmion  of  the  country. 

SoEST.  Stands  it  so  ? 

Vansen.  I’ll  show  it  you,  as  it  was  written 
down  two  or  three  centuries  ago. 

A Citizen.  And  we  tolerate  the  new 
l)ishops?  The  nobles  must  protedt  us,  we  will 
make  a row  else  ! 

Others.  And  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  in- 
timidated by  the  Incpiisition  ? 

Vansen.  It  is  your  own  fault. 

People.  We  have  Egmont  ! We  have 
Orange  ! They  will  protedl  our  interests. 

Vansen.  Your  brothers  in  Flanders  are 
beginning  the  good  work. 

Soapboiler.  Dog  ! [Strikes  him. 

Others  oppose  the  Soapboh.er,  and  exclaim, 
Are  you  also  a Spaniard? 

Another.  What ! This  honorable  man  ! 

Another.  This  learned  man  ? 

[ They  attack  the  Soapboiler. 

Carpenter.  For  Heaven’s  sake,  peace  ! 

[Others  mingle  in  the  fray. 

Carpenter.  Citizens,  what  means  this? 

[Boys  whistle,  tlmnu  stones,  set  on  dogs; 
citizens  stand  and  gape,  people  come  run- 
ning up,  others  walk  quietly  to  and  fro, 
others  play  all  sorts  of  pranks,  shout  and 
huzza. 

Others.  Freedom  and  privilege ! Privi- 
lege and  freedom  ! 

Enter  Fomont,  loith  followers. 

Fgmont.  Peace ! peace ! good  people. 
What  is  the  matter?  Peace,  I say  ! Separate 
them. 

Carpenter.  My  good  lord,  you  come  like 
an  angel  from  heaven.  Hush  ! See  you 
nothing?  Count  Fgmont ! Honor  to  Count 
Fgmont ! 

Fgmont.  Here,  too  ! What  are  you  about? 
Burgher  against  burgher  ! Does  not  even  the 
neighborhood  of  our  royal  mistress  oppose  a 
barrier  to  this  frenzy?  Disperse  yourselves, 
and  go  about  your  business.  ’Tis  a bad  sign 
when  you  thus  keep  holiday  on  working  days. 
How  did  the  disturbance  begin  ? 

[ The  tumult  gradually  subsides,  and  the 
people  gather  around  Fgmont. 


Carpenter.  They  are  fighting  about  their 
privileges. 

Fgmont.  Which  they  will  forfeit  through 
their  own  folly — and  who  are  you?  You  seem 
honest  people. 

Carpenter.  ’Tis  our  wish  to  be  so. 

Fomont.  Your  calling  ? 

Carpenter.  A carpenter,  and  master  of 
the  guild. 

Fgmont.  And  you  ? 

Soest.  a shopkeeper. 

Fgmont.  And  you? 

Jetter.  a tailor. 

Fgmont.  I remember,  you  were  employed 
upon  the  liveries  of  my  people.  Your  name 
is  Jetter. 

Jetter.  To  riiink  of  your  grace  remember- 
ing it ! 

Fgmont.  I do  not  easily  forget  any  one 
whom  I have  seen  or  conversed  with.  Do 
what  you  can,  good  people,  to  keep  the  peace  ; 
you  stand  in  bad  repute  enough  already. 
Provoke  not  the  king  still  farther.  The 
power,  after  all,  is  in  his  hands.  An  honest 
burgher,  who  maintains  himself  industriously, 
has  everywhere  as  much  freedom  as  he 
wants. 

Carpenter.  That  now  is  just  our  mis- 
fortune ! With  all  due  deference,  your  grace, 
’tis  the  idle  portion  of  the  community,  your 
drtmkards  and  vagabonds,  who  quarrel  for 
want  of  something  to  do,  and  clamor  about 
privilege  because  they  are  hungry  ; they  im- 
pose upon  the  curious  and  the  credulous,  and, 
in  order  to  obtain  a pot  of  beer,  excite  dis- 
turbances that  will  bring  misery  upon  thou- 
sands. That  is  just  what  they  want.  We 
keep  our  houses  and  chests  too  well  guarded  ; 
they  would  fain  drive  us  away  from  them  with 
firebrands. 

Fgmont.  You  shall  have  all  needful  assist- 
ance ; measures  have  been  taken  to  stem  tlie 
evil  by  force.  Make  a firm  stand  against  the 
new  dodlrines,  and  do  not  imagine  that  jirivi- 
leges  are  secured  by  sedition.  Remain  at 
home;  suffer  no  crowds  to  assemble  in  the 
streets.  Sensible  people  can  accom}fiish 
much. 

[In  the  meantime  the  crowd  has  for  the  most 
part  dispersed. 

Carpenter.  Thanks,  your  excellency — 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion  ! We  will  do 
what  in  us  lies.  {Exit  Fgmont.)  A gra- 
cious lord!  A true  Netherlander!  Nothing 
of  the  Spaniard  about  him. 


205 


Jetter.  If  we  had  only  him  for  a regent? 
’Tis  a pleasure  to  follow  him. 

SoEST.  The  King  won’t  hear  of  that.  He 
takes  care  to  appoint  his  own  people  to  the 
place. 

Jetter.  Did  you  notice  his  dress?  It  was 
of  the  newest  fashion — after  the  Spanish  cut. 

Carpenter.  A handsome  gentleman. 

Jetter.  His  head  now  were  a dainty 
morsel  for  a headsman. 

SoEST.  Are  you  mad  ? What  are  you 
thinking  about  ? 


SCENE  II. — Egmont’s  reside?ice. 

His  Secretarv  ( at  a desk  with  papers.  He 
rises  impatiently) . 

Secretary.  Still  he  comes  not ! And  I 
have  been  waiting  already  full  two  hours,  pen 
in  hand,  the  paper  before  me ; and  just  to-day 
I was  anxious  to  be  out  so  early.  The  floor 
burns  under  my  feet.  I can  with  difficulty 
restrain  my  impatience.  “Be  pundlual  to  the 
hour.”  Such  was  his  parting  injundlion  ; 
now  he  comes  not.  There  is  so  much  busi- 


Jetter.  It  is  stupid  enough  that  such  an 
idea  should  come  into  one’s  head  ! But  so  it 
is.  Whenever  I see  a fine  long  neck,  I can- 
not help  thinking  how  well  it  would  suit  the 
block.  These  cursed  executions  ! One  can- 
not get  them  out  of  one’s  head.  When  the 
lads  are  swimming,  and  I chance  to  see  a 
naked  back,  I think  forthwith  of  the  dozens  I 
have  seen  beaten  with  rods.  If  I meet  a portly 
gentleman,  I fancy  I already  see  him  roasting 
at  the  stake.  At  night,  in  my  dreams,  I am 
tortured  in  every  limb;  one  cannot  have  a 
single  hour’s  enjoyment ; all  merriment  and 
fun  have  long  been  forgotten.  These  terrible 
images  seem  burnt  in  upon  my  brain. 


ness  to  get  through,  I shall  not  have  finished 
before  midnight.  He  overlooks  one’s  faults, 
it  is  true;  methinks  it  would  be  better  though, 
were  he  more  stridt,  so  he  dismissed  one  at  the 
appointed  time.  One  could  then  arrange  one’s 
plans.  It  is  now  full  two  hours  since  he  left 
the  Regent ; who  knows  whom  he  may  have 
chanced  to  meet  by  the  way  ? 

Enter  Egmont. 

Egmont.  ^^T11,  how  do  matters  look? 

Secretary.  I am  ready,  and  three  couriers 
are  waiting. 

E(;mont.  I have  detained  you  too  long ; 
you  look  somewhat  out  of  humor. 


206 


Secretary.  In  obedience  to  your  com- 
mand I have  already  been  in  attendance  for 
some  time.  Here  are  the  papers  ! 

Egmont.  Donna  Elvira  will  be  angry  with 
me,  when  she  learns  that  I have  detained  you. 

Secretary.  You  are  pleased  to  jest. 

Egmont.  No,  no.  Be  not  ashamed.  I 
admire  your  taste.  She  is  pretty,  and  I have 
no  objedtion  that  you  should  have  a friend  at 
the  castle.  What  say  the  letters  ? 

Secretary.  Much,  my  lord,  but  withal 
little  that  is  satisfadlory. 

Egmont.  ’Tis  well  that  we  have  pleasures 
at  home,  we  have  the  less  occasion  to  seek 
them  from  abroad.  Is  there  much  that  re- 
quires attention  ? 

Secretary.  Enough,  my  lord ; three 
couriers  are  in  attendance. 

Egmont.  Proceed  ! The  most  important. 

Secretary.  All  is  important. 

Egmont.  One  after  the  other;  only  be 
prompt. 

Secretary.  Captain  Breda  sends  an  ac- 
count of  the  occurrences  that  have  further 
taken  place  in  Ghent  and  the  surrounding 
distridls.  The  tumult  is  for  the  most  part 
allayed. 

Egmont.  He  doubtless  reports  individual 
adls  of  folly  and  temerity  ? 

Secretary.  He  does,  my  lord. 

Egmont.  Spare  me  the  recital. 

Secretary.  Six  of  the  mob  who  tore 
down  the  image  of  the  Virgin  at  Verviers 
have  been  arrested.  He  inquires  whether 
they  are  to  be  hanged  like  the  others. 

Egmont.  I am  weary  of  hanging ; let 
them  be  flogged  and  discharged. 

Secretary.  There  are  two  women  among 
them  ; are  they  to  be  flogged  also  ? 

Egmont.  He  may  admonish  them  and  let 
them  go. 

Secretary.  Brink,  of  Breda’s  company, 
wants  to  marry ; the  captain  hopes  you  will 
not  allow  it.  There  are  so  many  women 
among  the  troops,  he  writes,  that  when  on 
the  march,  they  resemble  a gang  of  gypsies 
rather  than  regular  soldiers. 

Egmont.  We  must  overlook  it  in  his  case. 
He  is  a fine  young  fellow,  and  moreover  en- 
treated me  so  earnestly  before  I came  away. 
This  must  be  the  last  time,  however ; though 
it  grieves  me  to  refuse  the  poor  fellows  their 
best  pastime ; they  have  enough  without  that 
to  torment  them. 

Secretary.  Two  of  your  people,  Seter 
and  Hart,  have  ill-treated  a damsel,  the 


I daughter  of  an  innkeeper.  They  got  her 
I alone  and  she  could  not  escape  from  them, 
j Egmont.  If  she  be  an  honest  maiden  and 
j they  used  violence,  let  them  be  flogged  three 
j days  in  succession ; and  if  they  have  any 
j jDroperty,  let  him  retain  as  much  of  it  as  will 
portion  the  girl. 

i Secretary.  One  of  the  foreign  preachers 
has  been  discovered  passing  secretly  through 
Comines.  He  swore  that  he  was  on  the  point 
j of  leaving  for  France.  According  to  orders, 
i he  ought  to  be  beheaded, 
j Egmont.  Let  him  be  condudled  quietly 
I to  the  frontier,  and  there  admonished  that  the 
I next  time  he  will  not  escape  so  easily. 

I Secretary.  A letter  from  your  steward. 
He  writes  that  money  comes  in  slowly,  he  can 
with  difficulty  send  you  the  required  sum 
within  the  week ; the  late  disturbances  have 
thrown  everything  into  the  greatest  confusion. 

Egmont.  Money  must  be  had  ! It  is  for 
him  to  look  to  the  means. 

Secretary.  He  says  he  will  do  his  utmost, 
and  at  length  proposes  to  sue  and  imprison 
Raymond,  who  has  been  so  long  in  your  debt. 

Egmont.  But  he  has  promised  to  pay  ! 

Secretary.  The  last  time  he  fixed  a fort- 
night himself. 

Egmont.  Well,  grant  him  another  fort- 
night; after  that  he  may  proceed  against  him. 

Secretary.  You  do  well.  His  non-pay- 
ment of  the  money  proceeds  not  from  inability, 
but  from  want  of  inclination.  He  will  trifle 
no  longer  when  he  sees  that  you  are  in  earnest. 
The  steward  further  proposes  to  withhold,  for 
half  a month,  the  pensions  which  you  allow  to 
the  old  soldiers,  widows  and  others.  In  the 
meantime  some  expedient  may  be  devised  ; 
they  must  make  their  arrangements  accord- 
ingly. 

Egmont.  But  what  arrangements  can  be 
made  here?  These  poor  people  want  the 
money  more  than  I do.  He  must  not  think 
of  it. 

Secretary.  How  then,  my  lord,  is  he  to 
raise  the  required  sum? 

Egmont.  It  is  his  business  to  think  of  that. 
He  was  told  so  in  a former  letter. 

Secretary.  And  therefore  he  makes  these 
proposals. 

Ec;mont.  They  will  never  do  ;— he  must 
think  of  something  else.  Let  him  suggest 
expedients  that  are  admissible,  and,  before  all, 
let  him  procure  the  money. 

Secretary.  I have  again  before  me  the 
letter  from  Count  Oliva.  Pardon  my  recalling 


207 


it  to  your  remembrance.  Before  all  others, 
the  aged  Count  deserves  a detailed  reply. 
You  pro]iosed  writing  to  him  with  yotir  own 
hand.  Doubtless,  he  loves  you  as  a father. 

Egmont.  I cannot  command  the  time  ; — 
and  of  all  detestable  things,  writing  is  to  me 
the  most  detestable.  You  imitate  my  hand  so 
admiral)ly,  do  you  write  in  my  name.  I am 
expedling  Orange.  I cannot  do  it ; — I wish, 
however,  that  something  soothing  should  be 
written,  to  allay  his  fears. 

Secretary.  Just  give  me  a notion  of  what 
you  wish  to  communicate  ; I will  at  once  draw 
up  the  answer,  and  lay  it  before  you.  It  shall 
be  so  written  that  it  might  pass  for  your  hand 
in  a court  of  justice. 

Egmont.  Ciive  me  the  letter.  (After  ghi7i- 
cins;  oi'cr  it.)  Dear,  excellent,  old  man  ! 

ert  thou  then  so  cautious  in  thy  youth? 
Didst  thou  never  mount  a breach?  Didst 
thou  remain  in  the  rear  of  battle  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  prudence? — What  affedlionate  so- 
licitude ! He  has  indeed  my  safety  and  hap- 
piness at  heart,  but  considers  not  that  he 
who  lives  but  to  save  his  life  is  already  dead. 
Charge  him  not  to  be  anxious  on  my  ac- 
count ; I a6t  as  circumstances  require,  and 
shall  be  upon  my  guard.  Let  him  use  his 
influence  at  court  in  my  favor,  and  be  assured 
of  my  warmest  thanhs. 


Secretary.  Is  that  all?  He  experts  still 
more. 

Egmont.  What  can  I say?  If  you  choose 
to  write  more  fully,  do  so.  The  matter  turns 
upon  a single  point ; he  would  have  me  live 
as  I cannot  live.  That  I am  joyous,  live  fast, 
take  matters  easily,  is  my  good  fortune ; nor 
would  I exchange  it  for  the  safety  of  a sep- 
ulchre. My  blood  rebels  against  the  Spanish 
mode  of  life,  nor  have  I the  least  inclination 
to  regulate  my  movements  by  the  new  and 
cautious  measures  of  the  court.  Do  I live 
only  to  think  of  life?  Am  I to  forego  the 
enjoyment  of  the  present  moment  in  order  to 
secure  the  next?  And  must  that  in  its  turn 
be  consumed  in  anxieties  and  idle  fears? 

Secretary.  I entreat  you,  my  lord,  be 
not  so  harsh  towards  the  venerable  man.  You 
are  wont  to  be  friendly  towards  every  one. 
Say  a kindly  word  to  allay  the  anxiety  of  your 
noble  friend.  See  how  considerate  he  is,  with 
what  delicacy  he  warns  you. 

Egmont.  Yet  he  harps  continually  on  the 
same  string.  He  knows  of  old  how  I detest 
these  admonitions.  They  serve  only  to  per- 
plex and  are  of  no  avail.  What  if  I were  a 
somnambulist,  and  trod  the  giddy  summit  of 
a lofty  house, — were  it  the  ])art  of  friendship 
to  call  me  by  my  name,  to  warn  me  of  my 
danger,  to  waken,  to  kill  me?  Let  each 


208 


choose  liis  own  path,  and  provide  for  his  own 
safety. 

Secretary.  It  may  become  you  to  be 
without  a fear,  but  those  who  know  and  love 
you — 

Egmont.  (Lookingover  the  letter.)  Then  he 
recalls  the  old  story  of  our  sayings  and  doings, 
one  evening,  in  the  wantonness  of  conviviality 
and  wine;  and  what  conclusions  and  inferences 
were  thence  drawn  and  circulated  throughout 
the  whole  kingdom  ! Well,  we  had  a cap  and 
bells  embroidered  on  the  sleeves  of  our  ser- 
vants’ liveries,  and  afterwards  exchanged  this 
senseless  device  for  a bundle  of  arrows — a 
still  more  dangerous  symbol  for  those  who  are 
bent  upon  discovering  a meaning  where  noth- 
ing is  meant.  These  and  similar  follies  were 
conceived  and  brought  forth  in  a moment  of 
merriment.  It  was  at  our  suggestion  that  a 
noble  troop,  with  beggars’  wallets,  and  a self- 
chosen  nickname,  with  mock  humility  recalled 
the  King’s  duty  to  his  remembrance.  It  was 
at  our  suggestion  too  — well,  what  does  it 
signify  ? Is  a carnival  jest  to  be  construed 
into  high  treason  ? Are  we  to  be  grudged 
the  scanty,  variegated  rags,  wherewith  a 
youthful  spirit  and  heated  imagination  would 
adorn  the  poor  nakedness  of  life?  Take  life 
too  seriously,  and  what  is  it  worth?  If  the 
morning  wake  us  to  no  new  joys,  if  in  the  even- 
ing we  have  no  pleasures  to  hope  for,  is  it 
worth  the  trouble  of  dressing  and  undressing? 
Does  the  sun  shine  on  me  to-day,  that  I may 
refledt  on  what  happened  yesterday  ? That  I 
may  endeavor  to  foresee  and  control,  what 
can  neither  be  foreseen  nor  controlled, — the 
destiny  of  the  morrow?  Spare  me  these  re- 
fledlions;  we  will  leave  them  to  scholars  and 
courtiers.  Let  them  ponder  and  contrive, 
creep  hither  and  thither,  and  surreptitiously 
achieve  their  ends.  If  you  can  make  use  of 
these  suggestions  without  swelling  your  letter 
into  a volume,  it  is  well.  Everything  appears 
of  exaggerated  importance  to  the  good  old 
man.  ’Tis  thus  the  friend,  who  has  long  held 
our  hand,  grasps  it  more  warmly  ere  he  quits 
his  hold. 

Secretary.  Pardon  me,  the  pedestrian 
grows  dizzy  when  he  beholds  the  charioteer 
drive  past  with  whirling  speed. 

Egmont.  Child  ! child  ! Forbear  ! As  if 
goaded  by  invisible  spirits,  the  sun-steeds  of 
time  bear  onward  the  light  car  of  onr  destiny; 
and  nothing  remains  for  us  but,  with  calm 
self-possession,  firmly  to  grasp  the  reins,  and 
now  right,  now  left,  to  steer  the  wheels,  here 


from  the  precipice  and  there  from  tlie  roc  k. 
Whither  he  is  hasting,  who  knows  ? Does  any 
one  consider  whence  he  came  ? 

Secretary.  My  lord  ! my  lord  ! 

Egmont.  I stand  high,  but  I can  and  must 
rise  yet  higher.  Courage,  strength,  and  hope 
possess  my  soul.  Not  yet  have  I attained  the 
height  of  my  ambition  ; that  once  achieved, 
I will  stand  firmly  and  without  fear.  Should 
I fall,  should  a thunder-clap,  a storm-blast, 
ay,  a false  step  of  my  own,  precipitate  me 
into  the  abyss,  so  be  it ! I shall  lie  there 
with  thousands  of  others.  I have  never  dis- 
dained, even  for  a trifling  stake,  to  throw  the 
bloody  die  with  my  gallant  comrades;  and 
shall  I hesitate  now,  when  all  that  is  most  pre- 
cious in  life  is  set  upon  the  cast  ? 

Secretary.  Oh,  my  lord  ! you  know  not 
what  you  say  ! May  Heaven  protecSl  you  ! 

Egmont.  CollecT  your  papers.  Orange  is 
coming.  Despatch  what  is  most  urgent,  that 
the  couriers  may  set  forth  before  the  gates  are 
closed.  The  rest  may  wait.  Leave  the  Count’s 
letter  till  to-morrow.  Fail  not  to  visit  Elvira, 
and  greet  her  from  me.  Inform  yourself  con- 
cerning the  Regent’s  health.  She  cannot  be 
well,  though  she  would  fain  conceal  it. 

\^Exit  Secretary. 

Enter  Orange. 

Egmont.  Welcome,  Orange;  you  appear 
somewhat  disturbed. 

Orange.  What  say  you  to  our  conference 
with  the  Regent  ? 

Egmont.  I found  nothing  extraordinary 
in  her  manner  of  receiving  us.  I have  often 
seen  her  thus  before.  She  appeared  to  me  to 
be  somewhat  indisposed. 

Orange.  Marked  you  not  that  she  was 
more  reserved  than  usual  ? She  began  by 
cautiously  approving  our  condudl  during  the 
late  insurrection  ; glanced  at  the  false  light  in 
which,  nevertheless,  it  might  be  viewed  : and 
finally  turned  the  discourse  to  her  favorite 
topic — that  her  gracious  demeanor,  her  friend- 
ship for  us  Netherlanders,  had  never  been  suf- 
ficiently recognized,  never  appreciated  as  it 
deserved  ; that  nothing  came  to  a prosperous 
issue  ; that  for  her  part  she  was  beginning  to 
grow  weary  of  it  ; that  the  King  must  at  last 
resolve  upon  other  measures.  Did  you  hear 
that  ? 

Egmont.  Not  all ; I was  thinking  at  the 
time  of  something  else.  She  is  a woman, 
good  Orange,  and  all  women  expe6I  that 
I every  one  shall  submit  passively  to  their  gentle 


209 


yoke ; that  every  Hercules  shall  lay  aside  his  1 
lion’s  skin,  assume  the  distaff,  and  swell  their 
train  ; and,  because  they  are  themselves  peace- 
ably inclined,  imagine  forsooth,  that  the  fer- 
ment which  seizes  a nation,  the  storm  which 
powerful  rivals  excite  against  one  another, 
may  be  allayed  by  one  soothing  word,  and 
the  most  discordant  elements  be  brought  to 
unite  in  tranquil  harmony  at  their  feet.  ’Tis 
thus  with  her ; and  since  she  cannot  accom- 
plish her  objedl,  why  she  has  no  resource  left 
but  to  lose  her  temper,  to  menace  us  with 
direful  prospedls  for  the  future,  and  to  threaten 
to  take  her  departure. 

Orange.  Think  you  not  that  this  time  she 
will  fulfil  her  threat? 

Egmont.  Never  ! How  often  have  I seen 
her  adlually  prepared  for  the  journey  ? Whither 
should  she  go?  Being  here  a stadtholder,  a 
queen,  think  you  that  she  could  endure  to 
spend  her  days  in  insignificance  at  her  broth- 
er’s court,  or  to  repair  to  Italy,  and  there  drag 
on  her  existence  among  her  old  family  con- 
nedlions  ? 

Orange.  She  is  held  incapable  of  this  de- 
termination, because  you  have  already  seen 
her  hesitate  and  draw  back  ; nevertheless,  it 
lies  in  her  to  take  this  step;  new  circumstances 
may  impel  her  to  the  long-delayed  resolve. 
What  if  she  w’ere  to  depart,  and  the  King  to 
send  another  ? 

Egmont.  Why,  he  would  come,  and  he 
also  would  have  business  enough  upon  his 
hands.  He  w'ould  arrive  with  vast  projedls 
and  schemes,  to  reduce  all  things  to  order,  to 
subjugate  and  combine  ; and  to-day  he  w'ould 
be  occupied  with  this  trifle,  to-morrow  with 
that,  and  the  day  following  have  to  deal  with 
some  unexpedted  hindrance.  He  would  spend 
one  month  in  forming  plans,  another  in  mor- 
tification at  their  failure,  and  half  a year  would 
be  consumed  in  cares  for  a single  province. 
With  him  also  time  would  pass,  his  head  grow 
dizzy,  and  things  hold  on  their  ordinary 
course,  till  instead  of  sailing  into  the  open 
sea,  according  to  the  plan  which  he  had  pre- 
viously marked  out,  he  might  thank  God  if, 
amid  the  tempest,  he  were  able  to  keep  his 
vessel  off  the  rocks. 

Orange.  What  if  the  King  were  advised 
to  try  an  experiment  ? 

Egmont.  Which  should  be — ? 

Orange.  To  try  how  the  body  would  get 
on  without  the  head. 

Egmont.  How? 

Orange.  Egmont,  our  interests  have  for 


years  weighed  upon  my  heart ; I ever  stand  as 
over  a chess-board,  and  regard  no  move  of  my 
adversary  as  insignificant ; and  as  men  of 
science  carefully  investigate  the  secrets  of 
nature,  so  I hold  it  to  be  the  duty,  ay,  the 
very  vocation  of  a prince,  to  acquaint  him- 
self with  the  dispositions  and  intentions  of 
all  parties.  I have  reason  to  fear  an  outbreak. 
The  King  has  long  adled  according  to  certain 
principles ; he  finds  that  they  do  not  lead  to 
a prosperous  issue ; what  more  probable  than 
that  he  should  seek  it  some  other  way  ? 

Egmont.  I do  not  believe  it.  When  a 
man  grows  old,  has  attempted  much,  and 
finds  that  the  world  cannot  be  made  to  move 
according  to  his  will,  he  must  needs  grow 
weary  of  it  at  last. 

Orange.  One  thing  he  has  not  yet  at- 
tempted. 

Egmont.  What  ? 

Orange.  To  spare  the  people,  and  to  put 
an  end  to  the  princes. 

Egmont.  How  many  have  long  been 
haunted  by  this  dread?  There  is  no  cause 
for  such  anxiety. 

Orange.  Once  I felt  anxious;  gradually 
I became  suspicious;  suspicion  has  at  length 
grown  into  certainty. 

Egmont.  Has  the  King  more  faithful  ser- 
vants than  ourselves? 

Orange.  We  serve  him  after  our  own 
fashion  ; and,  between  ourselves,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  we  understand  pretty  well  how 
to  make  the  interests  of  the  King  square  with 
our  own. 

Egmont.  And  who  does  not?  He  has 
our  duty  and  submission,  in  so  far  as  they  are 
his  due. 

Orange.  But  what  if  he  should  arrogate 
still  more,  and  regard  as  disloyalty  what  we 
esteem  the  maintenance  of  our  just  rights  ? 

Egmont.  We  shall  know  in  that  case  how 
to  defend  ourselves.  Let  him  assemble  the 
Knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece ; we  will  sub- 
mit ourselves  to  their  decision. 

Orange.  What  if  the  sentence  were  to 
precede  the  trial?  punishment,  the  sentence? 

Egmont.  It  were  an  injustice  of  which 
Philip  is  incapable;  a folly  which  I cannot 
impute  either  to  him  or  to  his  counsellors. 

Orange.  And  how  if  they  were  both  un- 
just and  foolish  ? 

Egmont.  No,  Orange,  it  is  impossible. 
Who  would  venture  to  lay  hands  on  us  ? The 
attempt  to  capture  us  were  a vain  and  fruitless 
enterprise.  No,  they  dare  not  raise  the  stand- 


210 


Ft-  IWhf  Fd 


y 


Alva  is  on  the  way. 

I do  not  believe  it. 

I know  it. 

The  Regent  appeared  to  know 


ard  of  tyranny  so  high.  The  breeze  that 
should  waft  these  tidings  over  the  land  would 
kindle  a mighty  conflagration.  And  what 
objedl  would  they  have  in  view?  The  King 
alone  has  no  power  either  to  judge  or  to  con- 
demn us ; and  would  they  attempt  our  lives 
by  assassination  ? They  cannot  intend  it.  A 
terrible  league  would  unite  the  entire  people. 
Direful  hate  and  eternal  separation  from  the 
crown  of  Spain  would,  on  the  instant,  be 
forcibly  declared. 

Orange.  The  flames  would  then  rage  over 
our  grave,  and  the  blood  of  our  enemies  flow, 
a vain  oblation.  Let  us  consider,  Egmont. 

Egmont.  But  how  could  they  effedt  this 
purpose? 

Orange. 

Egmont. 

Orange. 

Egmont. 
nothing  of  it. 

Orange.  And,  therefore,  the  stronger  is 
my  convidlion.  The  Regent  will  give  place 
to  him.  I know  his  bloodthirsty  disposition, 
and  he  brings  an  army  with  him. 

Egmont.  'Fo  harass  the  provinces  anew  ? 
The  people  will  be  exasperated  to  the  last  de- 
gree. 

Orange.  Their  leaders  will  be  secured. 

Egmont.  No  ! no  ! 

Orange.  Let  us  retire,  each  to  his  prov- 
ince. There  we  can  strengthen  ourselves ; 
the  Duke  will  not  begin  with  open  violence. 

Egmont.  Must  we  not  greet  him  when  he 
comes  ? 

Orange.  We  will  delay. 

Egmont.  What  if,  on  his  arrival,  he  should 
summon  us  in  the  King’s  name? 

Orange.  We  will  answer  evasively. 

Egmont.  And  if  he  is  urgent? 

Orange.  We  will  excuse  ourselves. 

Egmont.  And  if  he  insist? 

Orange.  We  shall  be  the  less  disposed  to 
come. 

Egmont.  Then  war  is  declared  ; and  we 
are  rebels.  Do  not  suffer  prudence  to  mislead 
you.  Orange.  I know  it  is  not  fear  that  makes 
you  yield.  Consider  this  step. 

Orange.  I have  considered  it. 

Eomont.  Consider  for  what  you  are  an- 
swerable if  you  are  wrong.  For  the  most 
fatal  war  that  ever  yet  desolated  a country. 
Your  refusal  is  the  signal  that  at  once  summons 
the  provinces  to  arms,  that  justifies  every 
cruelty  for  which  Spain  has  hitherto  so  anx- 
iously sought  a pretext.  With  a single  nod 


you  will  excite  to  the  direst  confusion  what, 
with  patient  effort,  we  have  so  long  kept  in 
abeyance.  Think  of  the  towns,  the  nobles, 
the  people ; think  of  commerce,  agriculture, 
trade  ! Realize  the  murder,  the  desolation  ! 
Calmly  the  soldier  beholds  his  comrade  fall 
beside  him  in  the  battlefield.  But  towards 
you,  carried  downwards  by  the  stream,  shall 
float  the  corpses  of  citizens,  of  children,  of 
maidens,  till,  aghast  with  horror,  you  shall  no 
longer  know  whose  cause  you  are  defending, 
since  you  shall  see  those  for  whose  liberty 
you  drew  the  sword  perishing  around  you. 
And  what  will  be  your  emotions  when  con- 
science whispers,  “ It  was  for  my  own  safety 
that  I drew  it  ?” 

Orange.  We  are  not  ordinary  men,  Eg- 
mont. If  it  becomes  us  to  sacrifice  ourselves 
for  thousands,  it  becomes  us  no  less  to  spare 
ourselves  for  thousands. 

Egmont.  He  who  spares  himself  becomes 
an  objedl  of  suspicion  ever  to  himself. 

Orange.  He  who  is  sure  of  his  own  mo- 
tives can,  with  confidence,  advance  or  retreat. 

Egmont.  Your  own  a6l  will  render  certain 
the  evil  that  you  dread. 

Orange.  Wisdom  and  courage  alike  prompt 
us  to  meet  an  inevitable  evil. 

Egmont.  When  the  danger  is  imminent  the 
faintest  hope  should  be  taken  into  account. 

Orange.  We  have  not  the  smallest  footing 
left ; we  are  on  the  very  brink  of  the  precipice. 

Eg.mont.  Is  the  King’s  favor  on  ground  so 
narrow  ? 

Orange.  Not  narrow,  perhaps,  but  slippery. 

Egmont.  By  heavens ! he  is  belied.  I 
cannot  endure  that  he  should  be  so  meanly 
thought  of!  He  is  Charles’s  son,  and  in- 
capable of  meanness. 

Orange.  Kings  of  course  do  nothing 
mean. 

E(;mont.  He  .should  be  better  known. 

Orange.  Our  knowledge  counsels  us  not 
to  await  the  result  of  a dangerous  experiment. 

Egmont.  No  experiment  is  dangerous,  the 
result  of  which  we  have  the  courage  to  meet. 

Orange.  You  are  irritated,  Egmont. 

E(;mont.  I must  see  with  my  own  eyes. 

Orange.  Oh,  that  for  once  you  saw  with 
mine ! My  friend,  because  your  eyes  are 
open,  you  imagine  that  you  see.  I go  ! 
Await  Alva’s  arrival,  and  God  be  with  you  ! 
My  refusal  to  do  so  may  perhaps  save  you. 
I'he  dragon  may  deem  the  prey  not  worth 
seizing,  if  he  cannot  swallow  us  both.  Per- 
haps he  may  delay,  in  order  more  surely  to 


2 I I 


execute  his  purpose  ; in  the  meantime  you 
may  see  matters  in  their  true  light.  But  then, 
be  prompt ! Lose  not  a moment ! Save, — 
oh,  save  yourself!  Farewell! — Let  nothing 
escape  your  vigilance  : — how  many  troops  he 
brings  with  him  ; how  he  garrisons  the  town  ; 
what  force  the  Regent  retains ; how  your 
friends  are  prepared.  Send  me  tidings — 
Egmont — 

Egmont.  What  would  you  ? 

Orange  (grasping  his  hand ) . Be  persuaded  ! 
Oo  with  me  ! 

Egmont.  How  ! Tears,  Orange  ! 


Orange.  To  weep  for  a lost  friend  is  not 
unmanl)-. 

Egmont.  You  deem  me  lost  ? 

Orange.  You  are  lost!  Consider!  Only 
a brief  respite  is  left  you.  Farewell.  \^Exit. 

Egmont.  (Aione.)  Strange  that  the  thoughts 
of  other  men  should  exert  such  an  influence 
over  us.  These  fears  would  never  have  entered 
my  mind  ; and  this  man  infedts  me  with  his 
solicitude.  Away ! ’Tis  a foreign  drop  in 
my  blood  ! Kind  nature,  cast  it  forth ! And 
to  erase  the  furrowed  lines  from  my  brow 
there  yet  remains  indeed  a friendly  means. 


212 


f 


U 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — Palace  of  the  Regent. 

Margaret  of  Parma. 

Regen'I’.  I might  have  exije6led  it.  Ha! 
when  we  live  immersed  in  anxiety  and  toil, 
we  imagine  that  we  achieve  the  utmost  that  is 
possible ; while  he  who  from  a distance 
looks  on  and  commands  believes  that  he  re- 
quires only  the  possible.  O ye  kings  ! I had 
not  thought  it  could  have  galled  me  thus.  It 
is  so  sweet  to  reign! — and  to  abdicate?  I 
know  not  how  my  father  could  do  so ; but  I 
will  also. 

Machiavel  appears  in  the  background. 

Regent.  A|)proach,  Machiavel.  I am 
thinking  over  this  letter  from  my  brother. 

Machiavel.  May  I know  what  it  con- 
tains? 

Regent.  As  much  tender  consideration 
for  me  as  anxiety  for  his  states.  He  extols 
the  firmness,  the  industry,  the  fidelity,  with 
which  I have  hitherto  watched  over  the  in- 
terests of  his  Majesty  in  these  provinces.  He 
condoles  with  me  that  the  unbridled  people 
occasion  me  so  much  trouble.  He  is  so 
thoroughly  convinced  of  the  depth  of  my 
views,  so  extraordinarily  satisfied  with  the 
prudence  of  my  condudt,  that  I must  almost 
say  the  letter  is  too  politely  written  for  a king 
— certainly  for  a brother. 


Machi.avel.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  he 
has  testified  to  you  his  just  satisfadtion. 

Regent.  But  the  first  time  that  it  is  a mere 
rhetorical  figure. 

Machiavel.  I do  not  understand  you. 

Regent.  You  soon  will.  For  after  this 
preamble  he  is  of  opinion  that  without  sol- 
diers, without  a small  army  indeed,  I shall 
always  cut  a sorry  figure  here ! We  did 
wrong,  he  says,  to  withdraw  our  troops  from 
the  provinces  at  the  remonstrance  of  the 
inhabitants;  a garrison,  he  thinks,  which  shall 
press  upon  the  neck  of  the  burgher,  will  prevent 
him,  by  its  weight,  from  making  any  lofty 
spring. 

M.\chiavel.  It  w'ould  irritate  the  public 
mind  to  the  last  degree. 

Regent.  The  King  thinks,  however,  do 
you  hear? — he  thinks  that  a clever  general, 
one  who  never  listens  to  reason,  will  be  able 
to  deal  promptly  with  all  parties — people 
and  nobles,  citizens  and  peasants;  he  there- 
fore sends,  with  a powerful  army,  the  Duke 
of  Alva. 

M.achiavel.  Alva? 

Regent.  You  are  surprised. 

Machiavel.  You  say  he  sends  ; he  asks 
doubtle.ss  whether  he  should  send. 

Regent.  The  King  asks  not — he  sends. 

Machiavel.  You  will  then  have  an  expe- 
rienced warrior  in  your  service. 


213 


Regent.  In  my  service  ? Speak  out,  Ma- 
chiavel. 

Machiavel.  I would  not  anticipate  you. 

Regent.  And  I would  I could  dissimulate. 
It  wounds  me — wounds  me  to  the  quick.  I 
had  rather  my  brother  would  speak  his  mind 
than  attach  his  signature  to  formal  epistles 
drawn  up  by  a secretary  of  state. 

Machiavel.  Can  they  not  comprehend? — 

Regent.  I know  them  both  within  and 
without.  They  would  fain  make  a clean 
sweep ; and  since  they  cannot  set  about  it 
themselves,  they  give  their  confidence  to  any 
one  who  comes  with  a besom  in  his  hand. 
Oh,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I saw  the  king  and 
his  council  worked  upon  this  tapestry  ! 

Machiavel.  So  distindlly ! 

Regent.  No  feature  is  wanting.  There  are 
good  men  among  them.  The  honest  Rode- 
rigo,  so  experienced  and  so  moderate,  who 
does  not  aim  too  high,  yet  lets  nothing  sink 
too  low ; the  upright  Alonzo,  the  diligent 
Freneda,  the  steadfast  Las  Vargas,  and  others 
who  join  them  when  the  good  party  are  in 
power.  But  there  sits  the  hollow-eyed  Tole- 
dan, with  brazen  front  and  deep  fire-glance, 
muttering  between  his  teeth  about  womanish 
softness,  ill-timed  concession,  and  that  women 
can  ride  trained  steeds  well  enough,  but  are 
themselves  bad  masters  of  the  horse,  and  the 
like  pleasantries,  which  in  former  times  I have 
been  compelled  to  hear  from  political  gentlemen. 

Machiavel.  You  have  chosen  good  colors 
for  your  pidture. 

Regent.  Confess,  Machiavel,  among  the 
tints  from  -which  I might  seledl,  tliere  is  no 
hue  so  livid,  so  jaundice-like,  as  Alva’s  com- 
plexion, and  the  color  he  is  wont  to  paint 
with.  He  regards  every  one  as  a blasphemer 
or  traitor ; for  under  this  head  they  can  all  be 
racked,  impaled,  quartered  and  burned  at  pleas- 
ure. The  good  I have  accomplished  here 
appears  as  nothing  seen  from  a distance,  just 
because  it  is  good.  Then  he  dwells  on  every 
outbreak  that  is  past,  recalls  every  disturbance 
that  is  quieted,  and  brings  before  the  king 
such  a pidlure  of  mutiny,  sedition  and  auda- 
city, that  we  appear  to  him  to  be  adlually 
devouring  one  another,  when  with  us  the  tran- 
sient explosion  of  a rude  people  has  long  been 
forgotten.  Thus  he  conceives  a cordial  hatred 
for  the  poor  people ; he  views  them  with 
horror,  as  beasts  and  monsters  ; looks  around 
for  fire  and  sword,  and  imagines  that  by  such 
means  human  beings  are  subdued. 

Machiavel.  You  appear  to  me  too  vehe- 


ment ; you  take  the  matter  too  seriously.  Do 
you  not  remain  Regent? 

Regent.  I am  aware  of  that.  He  will 
bring  his  instrudlions.  I am  old  enough  in 
state  affairs  to  understand  how  people  can  be 
! supplanted,  without  being  adtually  deprived 
of  office.  First,  he  will  produce  a commis- 
sion, couched  in  terms  somewhat  obscure  and 
equivocal ; he  will  stretch  his  authority,  for 
the  power  is  in  his  hands;  if  I complain,  he 
will  hint  at  secret  instrudlions ; if  I desire  to 
see  them,  he  will  answer  evasively;  if  I insist, 
he  will  produce  a paper  of  totally  different 
import ; and  if  this  fail  to  satisfy  me,  he  will 
go  on  precisely  as  if  I had  never  interfered. 
Meanwhile  he  will  have  accomplished  what  I 
dread,  and  have  frustrated  my  most  cherished 
schemes. 

Machiavel.  I wish  I could  contradidl  you. 

Regent.  His  harshness  and  cruelty  will 
again  arouse  the  turbulent  spirit  which,  with 
unspeakable  patience,  I have  succeeded  in 
quelling ; I shall  see  my  work  destroyed  be- 
fore my  eyes,  and  have  besides  to  bear  the 
blame  of  his  wrong-doing. 

Machiavel.  Await  it,  your  Highness. 

Regent.  I have  sufficient  self-command 
to  remain  quiet.  Let  him  come;  I will  make 
way  for  him  with  the  best  grace  ere  he  pushes 
me  aside. 

Machiavel.  So  important  a step  thus  sud- 
denly ? 

Regent.  ’Tis  harder  than  you  imagine. 
He  who  is  accustomed  to  rule,  to  hold  daily 
in  his  hand  the  destiny  of  thousands,  descends 
from  the  throne  as  into  the  grave.  Better 
thus,  however,  than  linger  a spedlre  among 
the  living,  and  with  hollow  aspedl  endeavor 
to  maintain  a place  which  another  has  in- 
herited, and  already  possesses  and  enjoys. 


SCENE  II.— Clara’s  dwelling. 

Clara  and  her  Mother. 

Mother.  Such  a love  as  Brackenburg’s  I 
have  never  seen ; I thought  it  was  to  be  found 
only  in  romance  books. 

Clara.  ( Walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
humming  a song. ) 

With  love’s  thrilling  rapture 
What  joy  can  compare  ! 

Mother.  He  suspedls  thy  attachment  to 
Egmont ; and  yet,  if  thou  would’st  but  treat 


214 


ARTIST  : C.  HABERLIN. 


i:gmOx\  r. 


ACr  III,  SCENE  II, 


EC.MONT  AND  CLARA. 


1 


ip, 

. > 


' .f 


r*.> 


- i 


« 


him  a little  kindly,  I do  believe  he  would 
marry  thee  still,  if  thou  would’st  have  him. 

Clara  (si/igs). 

Blissful 
And  tearful, 

With  thought-teeming  brain ; 

Hoping 

And  fearing 

In  passionate  pain  ; 

Now  shouting  in  triumph. 

Now  sunk  in  despair  ; — 

With  love’s  thrilling  rapture 
What  joy  can  compare  ! 

Mother.  Have  done  with  such  baby-non- 
sense  ! 

Clara.  Nay,  do  not  abuse  it ; "tis  a song 
of  marvellous  virtue.  Many  a time  have  I 
lulled  a grown  child  to  sleep  with  it. 

Mother.  Ay  ! Thou  canst  think  of  noth- 
ing but  thy  love.  If  it  only  did  not  put  every- 
thing else  out  of  thy  head.  Thou  should’st 
have  more  regard  for  Brackenburg,  I tell 
thee.  He  may  make  thee  happy  yet  some  day. 

Clara.  He  ? 

Mother.  Oh,  yes ! A time  will  come ! 
You  children  live  only  in  the  present,  and 
give  no  ear  to  our  experience.  Youth  and 
happy  love,  all  has  an  end  ; and  there  comes  ! 
a time  when  one  thanks  God  if  one  has  any 
corner  to  creep  into. 

Clara.  ( Shudders,  and  after  a pause  stands 
up.)  Mother,  let  that  time  come — like  death. 
To  think  of  it  beforehand  is  horrible  ! And  ! 
if  it  come  ! If  we  must — then — we  will  bear  \ 
ourselves  as  we  may.  Live  without  thee, 
Egmont ! ( Weeping.)  No  ! It  is  impossible. 

Enter  Egmont  ( eiwe loped  in  a horseman' s 
cloak,  his  hat  draiun  over  his  face). 

Egmont.  Clara ! 

Clara.  (Utters  a cry  and  starts  back.) 
Egmont!  (She  hastens  towards  him.)  Eg- 
mont ! ( She  embraces  and  leans  upon  him.)  O 
thou  good,  kind,  sweet  Egmont  I Art  thou 
come?  Art  thou  here  indeed  1 

Egmont.  Good-evening,  mother  ! 

Mother.  God  save  you,  noble  sir  ! My 
daughter  has  well-nigh  pined  to  death  be- 
cause you  have  stayed  away  so  long ; she 
talks  and  sings  about  you  the  livelong  day. 

Egmont.  You  will  give  me  some  supper? 

Mother.  You  do  us  too  much  honor.  If 
we  only  had  anything — 

Clara.  Certainly  1 Be  quiet,  mother  ; I 
have  provided  everything ; there  is  something 
prepared.  Do  not  betray  me,  mother. 


Mother.  There’s  little  enough. 

Clara.  Never  mind  ! And  then  I think 
when  he  is  with  me  I am  never  hungry ; so 
he  cannot,  I should  think,  have  any  great 
appetite  when  I am  with  him. 

Egmont.  Do  you  think  so?  (Clara 
stamps  with  her  foot  and  turns  pettishly  away.) 
What  ails  you  ? 

Clara.  How  cold  you  are  to-day  ! You 
have  not  yet  offered  me  a kiss.  Why  do  you 
keep  your  arms  enveloped  in  your  mantle, 
like  a new-born  babe?  It  becomes  neither 
a soldier  nor  a lover  to  keep  his  arms  muffled  up. 

Egmont.  Sometimes,  dearest,  sometimes. 
When  the  soldier  stands  in  ambush  and  would 
delude  the  foe,  he  colledts  his  thoughts,  gath- 
ers his  mantle  around  him,  and  matures  his 
plan  ; and  a lover — • 

Mother.  Will  you  not  take  a seat,  and 
make  yourself  comfortable  ? I must  to  the 
kitchen.  Clara  thinks  of  nothing  when  you 
are  here.  You  must  put  up  with  what  we  have. 

Egmont.  Your  good-will  is  the  best  season- 
ing. \_Exit  Mother. 

Clara.  And  what  then  is  my  love  ? 

Egmont.  Just  what  thou  wilt. 

Clara.  Liken  it  to  anything,  if  you  have 
the  heart. 

Egmont.  But  first.  ( He  flings  aside  his 
mantle,  and  appears  arrayed  in  a magniflcent 
dress.) 

Clara.  Oh,  heavens  1 

Egmont.  Now  my  arms  are  free  ! 

^Embraces  her. 

Clara.  Don’t  I You  will  spoil  your  dress. 
( She  steps  back.)  How  magnificent ! I dare 
not  touch  you. 

Egmont.  Art  thou  satisfied  ? I promised 
to  come  once  arrayed  in  Spanish  fashion. 

Clara.  I had  ceased  to  remind  you  of  it ; 
I thought  you  did  not  like  it — ah,  and  the 
Golden  Fleece  ! 

Egmont.  Thou  seest  it  now. 

Clara.  And  did  the  Emperor  really  hang 
it  round  thy  neck  ! 

Egmont.  He  did,  my  child  ! And  this 
chain  and  Order  invest  the  wearer  with  the 
noblest  privileges.  On  earth  I acknowledge 
no  judge  over  my  adlions,  except  the  grand 
master  of  the  Order,  with  the  assembled  chap- 
ter of  knights. 

Clara.  Oh,  thou  mightest  let  the  whole 
world  sit  in  judgment  over  thee.  The  velvet 
is  too  splendid!  and  the  braiding!  and  the 
embroidery  ! One  knows  not  where  to  begin. 

Egmont.  There,  look  thy  fill. 


215 


Clara.  And  the  Golden  Fleece ! You 
told  me  its  history,  and  said  it  is  the  symbol 
of  everything  great  and  precious,  of  every- 
thing that  can  be  merited  and  won  by  dili- 
gence and  toil.  It  is  very  precious — 1 may 
liken  it  to  thy  love ; — even  so  I wear  it  next 
my  heart ; — and  then — 

Egmont.  What  wilt  thou  say  ? 

Clara.  And  then  again  it  is  not  like. 

Egmont.  How  so  ? 

Clara.  I have  not  won  it  by  diligence  and 
toil ; I have  not  deserved  it. 

Egmont.  It  is  otherwise  in  love.  Thou 
dost  deserve  it  because  thou  hast  not  sought 
it — and,  for  the  most  part,  those  only  obtain 
love  who  seek  it  not. 

Clara.  Is  it  from  thine  own  experience 
that  thou  hast  learned  this  ? Didst  thou  make 
that  proud  remark  in  reference  to  thyself? 
Thou,  whom  all  the  people  love  ? 

Egmont.  Would  that  I had  done  some- 
thing for  them  ! That  I could  do  anything 
for  them  ! It  is  their  own  good  pleasure  to 
love  me. 

Clara.  Thou  hast  doubtless  been  with  the 
Regent  to-day? 

Egmont.  I have. 

Clara.  Art  thou  upon  good  terms  with  her  ? 

Egmont.  So  it  would  appear.  We  are 
kind  and  serviceable  to  each  other. 

Clara.  And  in  thy  heart  ? 

Egmont.  I like  her.  True,  we  have  each 
our  own  views ; but  that  is  nothing  to  the 
purpose.  She  is  an  excellent  woman,  knows 
with  whom  she  has  to  deal,  and  would  be 
penetrating  enough  were  she  not  quite  so 
suspicious.  I give  her  plenty  of  employment, 
because  she  is  always  suspedting  some  secret 
motive  in  my  condudl  when,  in  fact,  I have 
none. 

Clara.  Really  none? 

Egmont.  Well,  with  one  little  exception, 
perhaps.  All  wine  deposits  lees  in  the  cask 
in  the  course  of  time.  Orange  furnishes  her 
still  better  entertainment,  and  is  a perpetual 
riddle.  He  has  got  the  credit  of  harboring 
some  secret  design  ; and  she  studies  his  brow 
to  discover  his  thoughts,  and  his  steps,  to 
learn  in  what  diredlion  they  are  bent. 

Clara.  Does  she  dissemble? 

Egmont.  She  is  Regent — and  do  you  ask? 

Clara.  Pardon  me  ; I meant  to  say,  is  she 
false? 

Egmont.  Neither  more  nor  less  than  every- 
one who  has  his  own  objects  to  attain. 

Clara.  I should  never  feel  at  home  in  the 


world.  But  she  has  a masculine  spirit,  and  is 
another  sort  of  woman  from  us  housewives 
and  sempstresses.  She  is  great,  steadfast, 
resolute. 

Egmont.  Yes,  when  matters  are  not  too 
much  involved.  For  once,  however,  she  is  a 
little  disconcerted. 

Clara.  How  so  ? 

Egmont.  She  has  a moustache,  too,  on 
her  upper  lip,  and  occasionally  an  attack  of 
the  gout — a regular  Amazon. 

Clara.  A majestic  woman ! I should 
dread  to  appear  before  her. 

Egmont.  Yet  thou  art  not  wont  to  be 
timid  ! It  would  not  be  fear,  only  maidenly 
bashfulness. 

[Clara  cas/s  down  her  eyes,  takes  his  hand 
and  leans  upon  him. 

Egmont.  I understand  thee,  dearest ! Thou 
may’ St  raise  thine  eyes.  \He  kisses  her  eyes. 

Clara.  Let  me  be  silent ! Let  me  embrace 
thee  ! Let  me  look  into  thine  eyes,  and  find 
there  everything- — hope  and  comfort,  joy  and 
sorrow!  (She  unbraces  and  gazes  on  him.) 
Tell  me  ! Oh,  tell  me  ! It  seems  so  strange — 
art  thou  indeed  Egmont ! Count  Egmont ! 
The  great  Egmont,  who  makes  so  much  noise 
in  the  world,  who  figures  in  the  newspapers, 
who  is  the  support  and  stay  of  the  provinces? 

Egmont.  No,  Clara,  I am  not  he. 

Clara.  How? 

Egmont.  Seest  thou,  Clara?  Let  me  sit 
down  ! ( He  seats  hmiself,  she  kneels  on  a 

footstool  before  him,  rests  her  arms  on  his 
knees  atid  looks  up  in  his  face.)  I'hat  Egmont 
is  a morose,  cold,  unbending  Egmont,  obliged 
to  be  upon  his  guard,  to  assume  now  this  ap- 
pearance and  now  that  ; harassed,  misappre- 
hended and  perplexed,  when  the  crowd  esteem 
him  light-hearted  and  gay ; beloved  by  a 
people  who  do  not  know  their  own  minds ; 
honored  and  extolled  by  the  intradlable  mul- 
titude ; surrounded  by  friends  in  whom  he 
dares  not  confide ; observed  by  men  who  are 
on  the  watch  to  supplant  him  ; toiling  and 
striving,  often  without  an  objedl,  generally 
without  a reward.  Oh,  let  me  conceal  how  it 
fares  with  him,  let  me  not  speak  of  his  feel- 
ings 1 But  this  Egmont,  Clara,  is  calm,  un- 
reserved, happy,  beloved  and  known  by  the 
best  of  hearts,  which  is  also  thoroughly  known 
to  him,  and  which  he  presses  to  his  own  with 
unbounded  confidence  and  love.  [ He  em- 

In-aces  her.)  This  is  thy  Egmont. 

Clara.  So  let  me  die  1 The  world  has 
no  joy  after  this  ! 


2i6 


ACT  IV 


SCENE  l.—A  Street. 

Jetter,  Carpenter. 

Jetter.  Hist  ! neighbor, — a word  ! 

Carpenter.  Go  your  way  and  be  quiet. 

Jetter.  Only  one  word.  Is  there  nothing 
new  ? 

Carpenter.  . Nothing,  except  that  we  are 
anew  forbidden  to  speak. 

Jetter.  How? 

Carpenter.  Step  here,  close  to  this  house. 
Take  heed  ! Immediately  on  his  arrival,  the 
Duke  of  Alva  published  a decree,  by  which 
two  or  three  found  conversing  together  in  the 
streets  are,  without  trial,  declared  guilty  of 
high  treason. 

Jetter.  .^las ! 

Carpenter.  'Fo  speak  of  state  affairs  is 
prohibited  on  pain  of  perpetual  imprisonment. 

Jetter.  Alas  for  our  liberty  ! 

Carpenter.  And  no  one,  on  pain  of  death, 
shall  censure  the  measures  of  government. 

Jetter.  Alas  for  our  heads  ! 

Carpenter.  And  fathers,  mothers,  cliil- 
dren,  kindred,  friends  and  servants  are  in- 
vited, by  the  promise  of  large  rewards,  to 
disclose  what  passes  in  the  privacy  of  our 
homes,  before  an  expressly  appointed  tribunal. 


Jetter.  Let  us  go  home. 

Carpenter.  And  the  obedient  are  prom- 
ised that  they  shall  suffer  no  injury,  either  in 
person  or  estate. 

Jetter.  How  gracious  ! — I felt  ill  at  ease 
the  moment  the  Duke  entered  the  town. 
Since  then  it  has  seemed  to  me  as  tliough 
the  heavens  were  covered  with  black  crape, 
which  hangs  so  low  that  one  must  stoop  down 
to  avoid  knocking  one’s  head  against  it. 

Carpenter.  And  how  do  you  like  his 
soldiers ! 'Fhey  are  a different  sort  of  crabs 
from  those  we  have  been  used  to. 

Jetter.  Faugh  ! It  gives  one  the  cramp 
at  one’s  heart  to  see  such  a troop  march  down 
the  street.  As  straight  as  tapers,  with  fixed 
look,  only  one  step,  however  many  there  may 
be;  and  when  they  stand  sentinel,  and  you 
pass  one  of  them,  it  seems  as  though  he  would 
look  you  through  and  through  ; and  he  looks 
so  stiff  and  morose  that  you  fancy  you  see  a 
taskmaster  at  every  corner.  They  offend  my 
sight.  Our  militia  were  merry  fellows  ; they 
took  liberties,  stood  their  legs  astride,  their 
hats  over  their  ears,  they  lived  and  let  live  ; 
these  fellows  are  like  machines  with  a devil 
inside  them. 

Carpenter.  Were  such  an  one  to  cry 


217 


“Halt!”  and  to  level  his  musket,  think  you 
one  would  stand  ? 

Jetter.  1 should  fall  dead  upon  the  spot. 

Carpenter.  Let  us  go  home  ! 

Jetter.  No  good  can  come  of  it.  Fare- 
well. 

Enter  Soest. 

SoEST.  Friends!  Neighbors! 

Carpenter.  Hush  ! Let  us  go. 

Soest.  Have  you  heard  ? 

Jet'i  er.  Only  too  much  ! 

Soest.  Tlie  Regent  is  gone. 

Jetter.  Then  Heaven  help  us. 

Carpenter.  She  was  some  stay  to  us. 

Soest.  Her  departure  was  sudden  and 
secret.  She  could  not  agree  with  the  Duke  ; 
she  has  sent  word  to  the  nobles  that  she  in- 
tends to  return.  No  one  believes  it,  however. 

Carpenter.  God  pardon  the  nobles  for 
letting  this  new  yoke  be  laid  upon  our  necks. 
They  might  have  prevented  it.  Our  privileges 
are  gone. 

Jetter.  For  Heaven’s  sake  not  a word 
about  privileges.  I already  scent  an  execu- 
tion ; the  sun  will  not  come  forth  ; the  fogs 
are  rank. 

Soest.  Orange,  too,  is  gone. 

Carpenter.  Then  are  we  quite  deserted  ! 

Soest.  Count  Egmont  is  still  here. 

Jetter.  God  be  thanked  ! Strengthen 
him,  all  ye  saints,  to  do  his  utmost ; he  is  the 
only  one  who  can  help  us. 

Enter  Vansen. 

Van.sen.  Have  I at  length  found  a few 
brave  citizens  who  have  not  crept  out  of  sight? 

Jetter.  Do  us  the  favor  to  pass  on. 

Vansen.  You  are  not  civil. 

Jetter.  This  is  no  time  for  compliments. 
Does  your  back  itch  again  ? are  your  wounds 
already  healed  ? 

Vansen.  Ask  a soldier  about  his  wounds  ! 
Had  I cared  for  blows,  nothing  good  would 
have  come  of  me. 

Jetter.  Matters  may  grow  more  serious. 

Vansen.  You  feel  from  the  gathering  storm 
a pitiful  weakness  in  your  limbs,  it  seems. 

Carpenter.  Your  limbs  will  soon  be  in 
motion  elsewhere,  if  you  do  not  keep  quiet. 

Vansen.  Poor  mice  ! The  master  of  the 
house  procures  a new  cat,  and  ye  are  straight 
in  despair  ! The  difference  is  very  trifling  ; 
we  shall  get  on  as  we  did  before,  only  be  quiet. 

Carpenter.  You  are  an  insolent  knave. 

Vansen.  Gossip ! Let  the  Duke  alone. 


The  old  cat  looks  as  though  he  had  swallowed 
devils,  instead  of  mice,  and  could  not  now 
digest  them.  Let  him  alone,  I say ; he  must 
eat,  drink  and  sleep,  like  other  men.  I am 
not  afraid  if  we  only  watch  our  opportunity. 
At  first  he  makes  quick  work  of  it ; by-and-by, 
however,  he  too  will  find  that  it  is  pleasanter 
to  live  in  the  larder,  among  flitches  of  bacon, 
and  to  rest  by  night,  than  to  entrap  a few 
solitary  mice  in  the  granary.  Go  to  ! I know 
the  stadtholders. 

Carpenter.  What  such  a fellow  can  say 
with  impunity  ! Had  I said  such  a thing,  I 
should  not  hold  myself  safe  a moment. 

Vansen.  Do  not  make  yourselves  uneasy  ! 

I God  in  heaven  does  not  trouble  himself  about 
you,  poor  worms,  much  less  the  Regent. 

Jetter.  Slanderer! 

Vansen.  I know  some  for  whom  it  would 
be  better  if,  instead  of  their  own  high  spirits, 
they  had  a little  tailor’s  blood  in  their  veins. 

Carpenter.  What  mean  you  by  that  ? 

Vansen.  Hum  ! I mean  the  Count. 

Jetter.  Egmont ! What  has  he  to  fear? 

Vansen.  Pm  a poor  devil,  and  could  live 
a whole  year  round  on  what  he  loses  in  a single 
night ; yet  he  would  do  well  to  give  me  his 
revenue  for  a twelvemonth,  to  have  my  head 
upon  his  shoulders  for  one  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Jetter.  You  think  yourself  very  clever; 
yet  there  is  more  sense  in  the  hairs  of  Egmont’s 
head,  than  in  your  brains. 

Vansen.  Perhaps  so  ! Not  more  shrewd- 
ness, however.  These  gentry  are  the  most  apt 
to  deceive  themselves.  He  should  be  more 
chary  of  his  confidence. 

Jetter.  How  his  tongue  wags  ! Such  a 
gentleman  ! 

Vansen.  Just  because  he  is  not  a tailor. 

Jetter.  You  audacious  scoundrel ! 

Vansen.  I only  wish  he  had  your  courage 
in  his  limbs  for  an  hour  to  make  him  uneasy, 
and  plague  and  torment  him,  till  he  were  com- 
pelled to  leave  the  town. 

Jetter.  What  nonsense  you  talk ! why, 
he’s  as  safe  as  a star  in  heaven. 

Vansen.  Have  you  ever  seen  one  snuff 
itself  out?  Off  it  went  ! 

Carpenter.  Who  would  dare  to  meddle 
with  him? 

Vansen.  Will  you  interfere  to  prevent  it  ? 
Will  you  stir  up  an  insurreftion  if  he  is  ar- 
rested ? 

Jetter.  Ah  ! 

Vansen.  Will  you  risk  your  ribs  for  his 
' sake  ? 


218 


SoEST.  Eh ! 

Vansen.  (Mimicking them.)  Eh!  Oh!  Ah! 
Run  through  the  alphabet  in  your  wonder- 
ment. So  it  is,  and  so  it  will  remain.  Heaven 
help  him ! 

Jetter.  Confound  your  impudence  ! Can 
such  a noble,  upright  man  have  anything  to 
fear  ? 

Vansen.  In  this  world  the  rogue  has  every- 
where the  advantage.  At  the  bar,  he  makes 
a fool  of  the  judge ; on  the  bench,  he  takes 
pleasure  in  convidting  the  accused.  I have 
had  to  copy  out  a protocol,  where  the  com- 
missary was  handsomely  rewarded  by  the 
court,  both  with  praise  and  money,  because 
through  his  cross-examination,  an  honest  devil, 
against  whom  they  had  a grudge,  was  made 
out  to  be  a rogue. 

Carpenter.  Why,  that  again  is  a down- 
right lie.  What  can  they  want  to  get  out  of 
a man  if  he  is  innocent? 

Vansen.  Oh,  you  blockhead ! When 
nothing  can  be  worked  out  of  a man  by  cross- 
examination,  they  work  it  into  him.  Honesty 
is  rash  and  withal  somewhat  presumptuous.  At 
first  they  question  quietly  enough,  and  the 
prisoner,  proud  of  his  innocence,  as  they  call 
it,  comes  out  with  much  that  a sensible  man 
would  keep  back ; then,  from  these  answers 
the  inquisitor  proceeds  to  put  new  questions, 
and  is  on  the  watch  for  the  slightest  contra- 
didlion  ; there  he  fastens  his  line  ; and  let  the 
poor  devil  lose  his  self-possession,  say  too  much 
here,  or  too  little  there,  or.  Heaven  knows 
from  what  whim  or  other,  let  him  withhold 
some  trifling  circumstance,  or  at  any  moment 
give  way  to  fear — then  we’re  on  the  right 
track,  and,  I assure  you,  no  beggar-woman 
seeks  for  rags  among  the  rubbish  with  more 


care  than  such  a fabricator  of  rogues,  from 
trifling,  crooked,  disjointed,  misplaced,  mis- 
printed and  concealed  fadts  and  information, 
acknowledged  or  denied ; endeavors  at  length 
to  patch  up  a scarecrow,  by  means  of  which 
he  may  at  least  hang  his  vidlim  in  effigy;  and 
the  poor  devil  may  thank  Heaven  if  he  is  in  a 
condition  to  see  himself  hanged. 

Jetter.  He  has  a ready  tongue  of  his 
own . 

Carpenter.  This  may  serve  well  enough 
with  flies.  Wasps  laugh  at  your  cunning 
web. 

Vansen.  According  to  the  kind  of  spider. 
The  tall  Duke,  now,  has  just  the  look  of  your 
garden-spider ; not  the  large-bellied  kind^ — 
they  are  less  dangerous — but  your  long-footed, 
meagre-bodied  gentleman,  that  does  not  fatten 
on  his  diet,  and  whose  threads  are  slender  in- 
deed, but  not  the  less  tenacious. 

Jetter.  Egmont  is  knight  of  the  Golden 
Fleece — who  dare  lay  hands  on  him  ? He  can 
be  tried  only  by  his  peers,  by  the  assembled 
knights  of  his  order.  Your  own  foul  tongue 
and  evil  conscience  betray  you  into  this  non- 
sense. 

Vansen.  Think  you  that  I wish  him  ill? 
I would  you  were  in  the  right.  He  is  an  ex- 
cellent gentleman.  He  once  let  off,  with  a 
sound  drubbing,  some  good  friends  of  mine, 
who  would  else  have  been  hanged.  Now  take 
yourselves  off ! begone,  I advise  you!  yonder 
I see  the  patrol  again  commencing  their  round. 
They  do  not  look  as  if  they  would  be  willing 
to  fraternize  with  us  over  a glass.  We  must 
wait,  and  bide  our  time.  I have  a couple  of 
nieces  and  a gossip  of  a tapster ; if  after 
enjoying  themselves  in  their  company,  they 
are  not  tamed,  they  are  regular  wolves. 


219 


SCENE  II.  — The  Palace  of  Eulcnberg,  Res- 
idence of  the  Duke  of  Alva. 

Silva  ^^(/Go.mez  (meeting). 

SiLV.A.  Have  you  executed  the  Duke’s 
commands  ? 

Gomez.  Pun6lually.  All  the  day-patrols 
have  received  orders  to  assemble  at  the  ap- 
pointed time,  at  the  various  points  that  I have 
indicated.  Meanwhile,  they  march  as  usual 
tlirough  the  town  to  maintain  order.  Each  is 
ignorant  respefting  the  movements  of  the 
rest,  and  imagines  the  command  to  have  ref- 
erence to  himself  alone ; thus  in  a moment 
the  cordon  can  be  formed,  and  all  the  avenues 
to  the  palace  occupied.  Know  you  the  reason 
of  this  command  ? 

Silva.  I am  accustomed  blindly  to  obey ; 
and  to  whom  can  one  more  easily  render  obe- 
dience than  to  the  Duke,  since  the  event 
always  proves  the  wisdom  of  his  commands  ? 


Gomez.  Well  ! well  ! I am  not  surprised 
that  you  are  become  as  reserved  and  monosyl- 
labic as  the  Duke,  since  you  are  obliged  to  be 
always  about  his  person  ; to  me,  however,  who 
am  accustomed  to  the  lighter  service  of  Italy, 
it  seems  strange  enough.  In  loyalty  and  obe- 
dience I am  the  same  old  soldier  as  ever ; ' 
but  I am  wont  to  indulge  in  gossip  and  discus- 
sion ; here,  you  are  all  silent,  and  seem  as 
though  you  knew  not  how  to  enjoy  yourselves. 
The  Duke,  methinks,  is  like  a brazen  tower  i 


without  gates,  the  garrison  of  which  must  be 
furnished  with  wings.  Not  long  ago  I heard 
him  say  at  the  table  of  a gay,  jovial  fellow, 
that  he  was  like  a bad  spirit-shop,  with  a 
brandy  sign  displayed,  to  allure  idlers,  vaga- 
bonds and  thieves. 

Silva.  And  has  he  not  brought  us  hither 
in  silence? 

Gomez.  Nothing  can  be  said  against  that. 
Of  a truth,  we,  who  witnessed  the  address 
with  which  he  led  the  troops  hither  out  of 
Italy,  have  seen  something.  How  he  ad- 
vanced warily  through  friends  and  foes ; 
through  the  French,  both  royalists  and  her- 
etics ; through  the  Swiss  and  their  confed- 
erates; maintained  the  stridlest  discipline,  and 
accomplished  with  ease,  and  without  the  slight- 
est hindrance,  a march  that  was  esteemed  so 
perilous.  We  have  seen  and  learned  some- 
thing. 

Silva.  Here  too  ! Is  not  everything  as 
still  and  quiet  as  though  there  had  been  no 
disturbance  ? 

Gomez.  Why,  as  for  that,  it  was  tolerably 
quiet  when  we  arrived. 

Silva.  The  provinces  have  become  much 
more  tranquil ; if  there  is  any  movement  now, 
it  is  only  among  those  who  wish  to  escape; 
and  to  them,  methinks,  the  Duke  will  speedily 
close  every  outlet. 

Gomez.  This  service  cannot  fail  to  win  for 
him  the  favor  of  the  King. 

Silva.  And  nothing  is  more  expedient  for 
us  than  to  retain  his.  Should  the  King  come 
hither,  the  Duke  doubtless  and  all  whom  he 
recommends  will  not  go  without  their  reward. 

Gomez.  Do  you  really  believe  then  that 
the  King  will  come? 

Silva.  So  many  preparations  are  being 
made,  that  the  report  appears  highly  probable. 

Gomez.  I am  not  convinced,  however. 

Silva.  Keep  your  thoughts  to  yourself 
then.  For  if  it  should  not  be  the  King’s  in- 
tention to  come,  it  is  at  least  certain  that  he 
wishes  the  rumor  to  be  believed. 

Enter  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand.  Is  my  father  not  yet  abroad  ? 

Silva.  We  are  waiting  to  receive  his  com- 
mands. 

Ferdinand.  The  princes  will  soon  be  here. 

Gomez.  Are  they  expedled  to-day? 

Ferdinand.  Orange  and  Egmont. 

Gomez.  (Aside  to  Silva,  j A light  breaks 
in  upon  me. 

Silva.  Well,  then,  say  nothing  about  it. 


220 


Enter  the  Duke  of  Alva  ( as  he  advances  the 
rest  draw  back ) . 

Alva.  Gomez. 

Gomez.  (Steps forward.)  My  lord. 

Alva.  You  have  distributed  the  guards  and 
given  them  their  instrudlions  ? 

Gomez.  Most  accurately.  The  day-pa- 
trols— ■ 

Alva.  Enough.  Attend  in  the  gallery. 
Silva  will  announce  to  you  the  moment  when 
you  are  to  draw  them  together,  and  to  occupy 
the  avenues  leading  to  the  palace.  The  rest 
you  know. 

Gomez.  I do,  my  lord.  \^Exit. 

Alva.  Silva. 

Silva.  Here,  my  lord. 

Alva.  I shall  require  you  to  manifest  to- 
day all  the  qualities  which  I have  hitherto 
prized  in  you : courage,  resolve,  unswerving 
execution. 

Silva.  I thank  you  for  affording  me  an 
opportunity  of  showing  that  your  old  servant 
is  unchanged. 

Alva.  'I'he  moment  the  princes  enter  my 
cabinet,  hasten  to  arrest  Egmont’s  private  | 


secretary.  You  have  made  all  needful  prepa- 
rations for  securing  the  others  who  are  speci- 
fied ? 

Silva.  Rely  upon  us.  Their  doom,  like  a 
well-calculated  eclipse,  will  overtake  them  with 
terrible  certainty. 

Alva.  Have  you  had  them  all  narrowly 
watched  ? 

Silva.  All.  Egmont  especially.  He  is 
the  only  one  whose  demeanor,  since  your  ar- 
rival, remains  unchanged.  The  livelong  day 
he  is  now  on  one  horse  and  now  on  another ; 
he  invites  guests  as  usual,  is  merry  and  enter- 
taining at  table,  plays  at  dice,  shoots,  and  at 
night  steals  to  his  mistress.  The  others,  on 
the  contrary,  have  made  a manifest  pause  in 
their  mode  of  life  ; they  remain  at  home,  and, 
from  the  outward  aspedt  of  their  houses,  you 
would  imagine  that  there  was  a sick  man  within. 

Alva.  To  work  then,  ere  they  recover  in 
spite  of  us. 

Silva.  I shall  bring  them  without  fail. 
In  obedience  to  your  commands  we  load  them 
with  officious  honors  ; they  are  alarmed  ; cau- 
tiously, yet  anxiously,  they  tender  us  their 
thanks,  feel  that  flight  would  be  the  most  pru- 


22  1 


S '"  1.  ■ jux  "'Sf  . 


dent  course,  yet  none  venture  to  adopt  it ; | 
they  hesitate,  are  unable  to  work  together, 
while  the  bond  which  unites  them  prevents 
their  adling  boldly  as  individuals.  They  are 
anxious  to  withdraw  themselves  from  suspi- 
cion, and  thus  only  render  themselves  more 
obnoxious  to  it.  I already  contemplate  with 
joy  the  successful  realization  of  your  scheme. 

Alva.  I rejoice  only  over  what  is  accom- 
plished, and  not  lightly  over  that ; for  there 
ever  remains  ground  for  serious  and  anxious 
thought.  Fortune  is  capricious ; the  com- 
mon, the  worthless,  she  ofttimes  ennobles, 
while  she  dishonors  with  a contemptible  issue 
the  most  maturely-considered  schemes.  Await 
the  arrival  of  the  princes,  then  order  Gomez 
to  occupy  the  streets,  and  hasten  yourself  to 
arrest  Egmont’s  secretary,  and  the  others  who 
are  specified.  This  done,  return,  and  an- 
nounce to  my  son  that  he  may  bring  me  the 
tidings  in  the  council. 

Silva.  I trust  this  evening  I shall  dare  to 
appear  in  your  presence.  (Alva  approaches 
his  son,  who  has  hitherto  been  standing  in  the 
galleryP)  I dare  not  whisper  it  even  to  my- 
self; but  my  mind  misgives  me.  The  event 
will,  I fear,  be  different  from  what  he  antici- 
pates. I see  before  me  spirits,  who,  still  and 
thoughtful,  weigh  in  ebon  scales  the  doom  of 
princes  and  of  many  thousands.  Slowly  the 
beam  moves  up  and  down  ; deeply  the  judges 
appear  to  ponder  ; at  length  one  scale  sinks, 
the  other  rises,  breathed  on  by  the  cajirice  of 
destiny,  and  all  is  decided.  \_Exit. 

Alva.  (Advancing  with  his  son.)  How 
did  you  find  the  town  ? 

Ferdinand.  All  is  again  quiet.  I rode  as 
for  jiastime,  from  street  to  street.  Your  we.ll- 
distributed  patrols  hold  Fear  so  tightly  yoked, 
that  she  does  not  venture  even  to  whisper. 
'I'he  town  resembles  a plain  when  the  liglit- 
ning’s  glare  announces  the  impending  storm  : 
no  bird,  no  beast  is  to  be  seen,  that  is  not 
stealing  to  a ]>lace  of  shelter. 

Alva.  Has  nothing  further  occurred  ? 

Ferdinand.  Egmont,  with  a few  com- 
panions, rode  into  the  market-iilace  ; we  ex- 
changed greetings ; he  was  mounted  on  an 
unbroken  charger,  which  excited  my  admira- 
tion, “Let  us  hasten  to  break  in  our  steeds,” 
he  exclaimed  ; “ we  shall  need  them  ere  long  !” 
He  said  that  he  should  see  me  again  to-day  ; 
he  is  coming  here,  at  your  desire,  to  deliberate 
with  you. 

Alva.  He  will  see  you  again. 

Ferdinand.  Among  all  the  knights  whom 


I I know  here,  he  pleases  me  the  best.  I think 
we  shall  be  friends. 

Alva.  You  are  always  rash  and  inconsid- 
erate. I recognize  in  you  the  levity  of  your 
mother,  which  threw  her  unconditionally  into 
my  arms.  Appearances  have  already  allured 
you  precipitately  into  many  dangerous  connec- 
tions. 

Ferdinand.  You  will  find  me  ever  sub- 
missive. 

Alva.  I pardon  this  inconsiderate  kind- 
ness, this  heedless  gayety,  in  consideration  of 
your  youthful  blood.  Only  forget  not  on  what 
mission  I am  sent,  and  what  part  in  it  I would 
assign  to  you. 

Ferdinand.  Admonish  me,  and  spare  me 
not,  when  you  deem  it  needful. 

Alva.  (After  a pause.)  My  son  ! 

Ferdinand.  My  father! 

Alva.  The  princes  will  be  here  anon — 
Orange  and  Egmont.  It  is  not  mistrust  that 
has  withheld  me  till  now  from  disclosing  to 
you  what  is  about  to  take  place.  They  will 
not  dejtart  hence. 

Ferdinand.  What  do  you  purpose? 

Alva.  It  lias  been  resolved  to  arrest  them. 
You  are  astonished  ! Learn  what  you  have 
to  do ; the  reasons  you  shall  know  when  all 
is  accomjilished.  Time  fails  now  to  unfold 
them.  With  you  alone  I wish  to  deliberate 
on  the  weightiest,  the  most  secret  matters ; a 
powerful  bond  holds  us  linked  together ; you 
are  dear  and  precious  to  me  ; on  you  I would 
bestow  everything.  Not  the  habit  of  obe- 
dience alone  would  I impress  upon  you ; I de- 
sire also  to  implant  within  your  mind  the 
power  to  realize,  to  command,  to  execute ; to 
you  I would  bequeath  a vast  inheritance,  to 
the  King  a most  useful  servant ; I would 
endow  you  with  the  noblest  of  my  posses- 
sions, that  you  may  not  be  ashamed  to  appear 
among  your  brethren. 

Ferdinand.  How  deeply  am  I indebted 
to  you  for  this  love,  which  you  manifest  for 
me  alone,  while  a whole  kingdom  trembles 
before  you  ! 

Alva.  Now  hear  what  is  to  be  done.  As 
soon  as  the  princes  have  entered,  every  avenue 
to  the  palace  will  be  guarded.  This  duty  is 
confided  to  Gomez.  Silva  will  hasten  to  ar- 
rest Egmont’s  secretary,  together  with  those 
whom  we  hold  most  in  suspicion.  You, 
meanwhile,  will  take  the  command  of  the 
guards  stationed  at  the  gates  and  in  the 
courts.  Before  all,  take  care  to  occupy  the 
adjoining  apartment  with  the  trustiest  soldiers. 


222 


Wait  in  the  gallery  till  Silva  returns,  then 
bring  me  any  unimportant  paper,  as  a signal 
that  his  commission  is  executed.  Remain  in 
the  ante-chamber  till  Orange  retires;  follow 
him ; I will  detain  Egmont  here  as  though  I 
had  some  further  communication  to  make  to 
him.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery  demand 
Orange’s  sword,  summon  the  guards,  secure 
promptly  the  most  dangerous  man  ; I mean- 
while will  seize  Egmont  here. 

Ferdinand.  I obey,  my  father — for  the 
first  time  with  a heavy  and  an  anxious  heart. 

Alva.  I pardon  you  ; this  is  the  first  great 
day  of  your  life. 

Enter  Silva. 

Silva.  A courier  from  Antwerp.  Here  is 
Orange’s  letter.  He  does  not  come. 

Alva.  Says  the  messenger  so? 

Silva.  No,  my  own  heart  tells  me. 

Alva.  In  thee  speaks  my  evil  genius.  ( After 
reading  the  letter,  he  makes  a sign  to  the  tiao, 
and  they  retire  to  the  galle?y.  Alva  remains 
alone  in  front  of  the  stage.)  He  comes  not  ! 
Till  the  last  moment  he  delays  declaring  him- 
self. He  ventures  not  to  come  ! So  then, 
the  cautious  man,  contrary  to  all  expedlation, 
is  for  once  cautious  enough  to  lay  aside  his 
wonted  caution.  The  hour  moves  one  ! Let 
the  finger  travel  but  a short  space  over  the 
dial,  and  a great  work  is  done  or  lost — irrev- 
ocably lost ; for  the  opportunity  can  never  be 
retrieved,  nor  can  our  intention  remain  con- 
cealed. Long  had  I maturely  weighed  every- 
thing, foreseen  even  this  contingency,  and 
firmly  resolved  in  my  own  mind  what,  in  that 
case,  was  to  be  done ; and  now,  when  I am 
called  upon  to  a6l,  I can  with  difficulty  guard 
my  mind  from  being  again  distracted  by  con- 
flicting doubts.  Is  it  expedient  to  seize  the 
others  if  he  escape  me?  Shall  I delay,  and 
suffer  Egmont  to  elude  my  grasp,  together 
with  his  friends,  and  so  many  others  who  now, 
and  perhaps  for  to-day  only,  are  in  my  hands? 
How  ! Does  destiny  control  even  thee — the 
uncontrollable  ? How  long  matured!  How 
well  prepared  ! How  great,  how  admirable 
the  plan  ! How  nearly  had  hope  attained  the 
goal?  And  now,  at  the  decisive  moment, 
thou  art  placed  between  two  evils ; as  in  a 
lottery,  thou  dost  grasp  in  the  dark  future; 
what  thou  hast  drawn  remains  still  unrolled, 
to  thee  unknown  whether  it  is  a prize  or  a 
blank  ! f He  becomes  attentive,  like  o?ie  7nho 
hears  a noise,  and  steps  to  the  windoio.)  ’Tis  i 
he ! Egmont  ! Did  thy  steed  bear  thee  | 


hither  so  lightly,  and  started  not  at  the  scent 
of  blood,  at  the  spirit  with  the  naked  sword 
who  received  thee  at  the  gate  ? Dismount ! 
Lo,  now  thou  hast  one  foot  in  the  grave  ! 
And  now  both  ! Ay,  caress  him,  and  for  the 
last  time  stroke  his  neck  for  the  gallant  ser- 
vice he  has  rendered  thee.  And  for  me  no 
choice  is  left.  The  delusion,  in  which  Eg- 
mont ventures  here  to-day,  cannot  a second 
time  deliver  him  into  my  hands  1 Hark ! 
(Ferdinand  and  Silva  enter  hastily.')  Obey 
my  orders  I I swerve  not  from  my  purpose. 
I shall  detain  Egmont  here  as  best  I may,  till 
you  bring  me  tidings  from  Silva.  Then  re- 
main at  hand.  Thee,  too,  fate  has  robbed 
of  the  proud  honor  of  arresting  with  thine 
own  hand  the  King’s  greatest  enemy.  (^To 
Silva.)  Be  prompt  ! (7h  Ferdinand.)  Ad- 
vance to  meet  him. 

[.\lva  remains  some  moments  alone,  pacing 
the  chamber  in  silence. 

Enter  Egmont. 

Egmont.  I come  to  learn  the  King’s  com- 
mands; to  hear  what  service  he  demands  from 
our  loyalty,  which  remains  eternally  devoted 
to  him. 

Alva.  He  desires,  before  all,  to  hear  your 
counsel. 

Egmont.  Upon  what  subjeCt?  Does 
Orange  come  also  ? I thought  to  find  him 
here. 

Alva.  I regret  that  he  fails  us  at  this  im- 
portant crisis.  The  King  desires  your  counsel, 
your  opinion  as  to  the  best  means  of  tranquil- 
lizing these  states.  He  trusts  indeed  that  you 
will  zealously  co-operate  with  him  in  quelling 
these  disturbances,  and  in  securing  to  these 
provinces  the  benefit  of  complete  and  per- 
manent order, 

Egmont.  You,  my  lord,  .should  know 
better  than  I,  that  tranquillity  is  already  suf- 
ficiently restored,  and  was  still  more  so,  till 
the  appearance  of  fresh  troops  again  agitated 
the  public  mind,  and  filled  it  anew  with  anxiety 
and  alarm. 

Alva.  You  seem  to  intimate  that  it  would 
have  been  more  advisable  if  the  King  had  not 
placed  me  in  a position  to  interrogate  you. 

Egmont.  Pardon  me  ! It  is  not  for  me 
to  determine  whether  the  King  afted  advisedly 
in  sending  the  army  hither,  whether  the  might 
of  his  royal  presence  alone  would  not  have 
operated  more  powerfully.  The  army  is  here, 
the  King  is  not.  But  we  should  be  most  un- 
grateful were  we  to  forget  what  we  owe  to  the 


223 


Regent.  Let  it  be  acknowledged  ! By  her 
prudence  and  valor,  by  her  judicious  use  of  i 
authority  and  force,  of  persuasion  and  finesse,  ! 
she  pacified  the  insurgents,  and,  to  the  aston-  * 
ishment  of  the  world,  succeeded,  in  the  course  1 
of  a few  months,  in  bringing  a rebellious  i 
people  back  to  their  duty.  I 

Alva.  I deny  it  not.  The  insurredlion  is 
quelled  ; and  the  people  appear  to  be  already  ; 
forced  back  within  the  bounds  of  obedience.  , 
But  does  it  not  depend  upon  their  caprice  j 
alone  to  overstep  these  bounds?  Who  shall  ' 
prevent  them  from  again  breaking  loose? 
Where  is  the  power  capable  of  restraining 
them  ? Who  will  be  answerable  to  us  for  ' 
their  future  loyalty  and  submission  ? I'heir  | 
own  good-will  is  the  sole  pledge  we  have. 

Egmont.  And  is  not  the  good-will  of  a ; 
people  the  surest,  the  noblest  pledge  ? By 
Heaven  ! when  can  a monarch  hold  himself  ! 
more  secure,  ay,  both  against  foreign  and  do-  ' 
mestic  foes,  than  when  all  can  stand  for  one, 
and  one  for  all  ? 

Alva.  You  would  not  have  us  believe, 
however,  that  such  is  the  case  here  at  present? 

Egmont.  Let  the  King  proclaim  a general 
])ardon  j he  will  thus  tranquillize  the  public 
mind  ; and  it  will  be  seen  how  speedily  loyalty 
and  affedtion  will  return,  when  confidence  is 
restored. 

Alva.  How  ! And  suffer  those  who  have 
insulted  the  majesty  of  the  King,  who  have 
violated  the  sandluaries  of  our  religion,  to  go 
abroad  unchallenged  ! living  witnesses  that 
enormous  crimes  may  be  perpetrated  with  im- 
punity ! 

Egmont.  And  ought  not  a crime  of  frenzy, 
of  intoxication,  to  be  excused,  rather  than 
horribly  chastised  ? Especially  when  there  is 
the  sure  hope,  nay,  more,  where  there  is  pos- 
itive certainty  that  the  evil  will  never  again 
recur?  AVould  not  sovereigns  thus  be  more 
secure?  Are  not  those  monarchs  most  ex- 
tolled by  the  world  and  by  posterity  who  can 
pardon,  pity,  despise  an  offence  against  their 
dignity?  Are  they  not  on  that  account 
likened  to  God  himself,  who  is  far  too  exalted 
to  be  assailed  by  every  idle  blasphemy  ? 

Alva.  And  therefore,  should  the  King 
contend  for  the  honor  of  God  and  of  religion, 
we  for  the  authority  of  the  King.  What  the 
supreme  power  disdains  to  avert,  it  is  our  duty 
to  avenge.  Were  I to  counsel,  no  guilty 
person  should  live  to  rejoice  in  his  impunity. 

Egmont.  Think  you  that  you  will  be  able 
to  reach  them  all  ? Do  we  not  daily  hear  that 


fear  is  driving  them  to  and  fro,  and  forcing 
them  out  of  the  land  ? The  more  wealthy 
will  escape  to  other  countries  with  their  prop- 
erty, their  children  and  their  friends ; while 
the  poor  will  carry  their  industrious  hands  to 
our  neighbors. 

Alva.  They  will,  if  they  cannot  be  pre- 
vented. It  is  on  this  account  that  the  King 
desires  counsel  and  aid  from  every  prince, 
zealous  co-operation  from  every  stadtholder ; 
not  merely  a description  of  the  present  posture 
of  affairs,  or  conjedtures  as  to  what  might  take 
place  were  events  suffered  to  hold  on  their 
course  without  interruption.  To  contemplate 
a mighty  evil,  to  flatter  one’s  self  with  hope,  to 
trust  to  time,  to  strike  a blow,  like  the  clown 
in  a play,  so  as  to  make  a noise  and  appear  to 
do  something,  when  in  fadl  one  would  fain  do 
nothing ; is  not  such  condudl  calculated  to 
awaken  a suspicion  that  those  who  adt  thus  con- 
template with  satisfadlion  a rebellion,  which 
they  would  not  indeed  excite,  but  which  they 
are  by  no  means  unwilling  to  encourage  ? 

E(;mont.  (About  to  break  forth,  restrains 
himself,  ami  after  a brief  pause,  speaks  with 
composure.)  Not  every  design  is  obvious, 
and  many  a man’s  design  is  misconstrued. 
It  is  widely  rumored,  however,  that  the  objedl 
which  the  King  has  in  view  is  not  so  much  to 
govern  the  provinces  according  to  uniform 
and  clearly  defined  laws,  to  maintain  the 
majesty  of  religion  and  to  give  his  people 
universal  peace,  as  unconditionally  to  sub- 
jugate them,  to  rob  them  of  their  ancient 
rights,  to  appropriate  their  possessions,  to 
curtail  the  fair  privileges  of  the  nobles,  for 
whose  sake  alone  they  are  ready  to  serve  him 
with  life  and  limb.  Religion,  it  is  said,  is 
merely  a splendid  device,  behind  which  every 
dangerous  design  may  be  contrived  with  the 
greater  ease  ; the  prostrate  crowds  adore  the 
sacred  symbols  pidlured  there,  while  behind 
lurks  the  fowler  ready  to  ensnare  them. 

Alva.  This  must  I hear  from  you  ? 

Egmont.  I speak  not  my  own  sentiments ! 
I but  repeat  what  is  loudly  rumored,  and 
uttered  now  here  and  now  there  by  great  and 
by  humble,  by  wise  men  and  fools.  The 
Netherlanders  fear  a double  yoke,  and  who 
will  be  surety  to  them  for  their  liberty? 

Alva.  Liberty ! A fair  word  when  rightly 
understood.  What  liberty  would  they  have? 
What  is  the  freedom  of  the  most  free?  To 
do  right  ! And  in  that  the  monarch  will  not 
hinder  them.  No ! no  ! They  imagine  them- 
selves enslaved,  when  they  have  not  the  power 


224 


to  injure  themselves  and  others.  Would  it 
not  be  better  to  abdicate  at  once,  rather  than 
rule  such  a people  ? When  the  country  is 
threatened  by  foreign  invaders,  the  burghers, 
occupied  only  with  their  immediate  interests, 
bestow  no  thought  upon  the  advancing  foe, 
and  when  the  King  requires  their  aid,  they 
quarrel  among  themselves,  and  thus,  as  it  were, 
conspire  with  the  enemy.  Far  better  is  it  to 
circumscribe  their  power,  to  control  and  guide 
them  for  their  good,  as  children  are  controlled 
and  guided.  Trust  me,  a people  grows  neither  I 
old  nor  wise;  a people  remains  always  in  its 
infancy. 

Egmont.  How  rarely  does  a king  attain 
wisdom  ! And  is  it  not  fit  that  the  many 
should  confide  their  interests  to  the  many 
rather  than  to  the  one  ? And  not  even  to  the 
one,  but  to  the  few  servants  of  the  one,  men 
who  have  grown  old  under  the  eyes  of  their 
master.  To  grow  wise,  it  seems,  is  the  ex- 
clusive privilege  of  these  favored  individuals. 

Alva.  Perhaps  for  the  very  reason  that 
they  are  not  left  to  themselves. 

Egmont.  And  therefore  they  would  fain 
leave  no  one  else  to  his  own  guidance.  Let 
them  do  what  they  like,  however;  I have 
replied  to  your  questions,  and  I repeat,  the 
measures  you  propose  will  never  succeed  ! 
They  cannot  succeed  ! I know  my  country- 
men. They  are  men  worthy  to  tread  God’s 
earth  ; each  complete  in  himself,  a little  king, 
steadfast,  adtive,  capable,  loyal,  attached  to 
ancient  customs.  It  may  be  difficult  to  win 
their  confidence,  but  it  is  easy  to  retain  it. 
Firm  and  unbending  ! They  may  be  crushed, 
but  not  subdued. 

Alva.  ( JVho  during  this  speech  has  looked 
round  several  times.)  Would  you  venture  to 
repeat  what  you  have  uttered,  in  the  King’s 
presence  ? 

Egmont.  It  were  the  worse,  if  in  his  pres- 
ence I were  restrained  by  fear  ! The  better 
for  him  and  for  his  people,  if  he  inspired  me 
with  confidence,  if  he  encouraged  me  to  give 
yet  freer  utterance  to  my  thoughts. 

Alva.  What  is  profitable,  I can  listen  to 
as  well  as  he. 

Egmont.  I would  say  to  him — ’Tis  easy 
for  the  shepherd  to  drive  before  him  a flock 
of  sheep ; the  ox  draws  the  plough  without 
opposition  ; but  if  you  would  ride  the  noble 
steed,  you  must  study  his  thoughts,  you  must 
require  nothing  unreasonable,  nor  unreason- 
ably, from  him.  The  burgher  desires  to  re- 
tain his  ancient  constitution  ; to  be  governed 


by  his  own  countrymen  ; and  why?  Because 
he  knows  in  that  case  how  he  shall  be  ruled, 
because  he  can  rely  upon  their  disinterestedness, 
upon  their  sympathy  with  his  fate. 

Alva.  And  ought  not  the  Regent  to  lie 
empowered  to  alter  these  ancient  usages  ? 
Should  not  this  constitute  his  fairest  privilege? 
What  is  permanent  in  this  world  ? And  shall 
the  constitution  of  a state  alone  remain  un- 
changed? Must  not  every  relation  alter  in 
the  course  of  time,  and  on  that  very  account, 

I an  ancient  constitution  become  the  source  of 
a thousand  evils,  because  not  adapted  to  the 
present  condition  of  the  people  ? These 
ancient  rights  afford,  doubtless,  convenient 
loopholes,  through  which  the  crafty  and  the 
powerful  may  creep,  and  wherein  they  may 
lie  concealed,  to  the  injury  of  the  people  and 
of  the  entire  community;  and  it  is  on  this 
account,  I fear,  that  they  are  held  in  such 
high  esteem. 

Egmont.  And  these  arbitrary  changes, 
these  unlimited  encroachments  of  the  supreme 
power,  are  they  not  indications  that  one  will 
permit  himself  to  do  what  is  forbidden  to 
thousands  ? The  monarch  would  alone  be 
free,  that  he  may  have  it  in  his  power  to  grat- 
ify his  every  wish,  to  realize  his  every  thought. 
And  though  we  should  confide  in  him  as  a 
good  and  virtuous  sovereign,  will  he  be  an- 
swerable to  us  for  his  successors  ? That  none 
who  come  after  him  shall  rule  without  consid- 
eration, without  forbearance!  And  who  would 
deliver  us  from  absolute  caprice,  should  he 
send  hither  his  servants,  his  minions,  who, 
without  knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  re- 
quirements, should  govern  according  to  their 
own  good  pleasure,  meet  with  no  opposition, 
and  know  themselves  exempt  from  all  respon- 
sibility? 

Alva.  ( Who  has  meanwhile  again  looked 
round.)  There  is  nothing  more  natural  than 
that  a king  should  choose  to  retain  the  ])ower 
in  his  own  hands,  and  that  he  should  seledt  as 
the  instruments  of  his  authority  those  who  best 
understand  him,  who  desire  to  understand  him, 
and  who  will  unconditionally  execute  his  will. 

Egmont.  And  just  as  natural  is  it  that 
the  burgher  should  prefer  being  governed  by 
one  born  and  reared  in  the  same  land,  whose 
notions  of  right  and  wrong  are  in  harmony 
with  his  own,  and  whom  he  can  regard  as  his 
brother. 

Alva.  And  yet  the  noble,  methinks,  has 
.shared  rather  unequally  with  these  brethren  of 
his. 


225 


Egmont.  That  took  place  centuries  ago, 
and  is  now  submitted  to  without  envy.  But 
should  new  men,  whose  presence  is  not  needed 
in  the  country,  be  sent,  to  enrich  themselves 
a second  time,  at  the  cost  of  the  nation  ; 
should  the  people  see  themselves  exposed  to 
their  bold,  unscrupulous  rapacity,  it  would 
excite  a ferment  that  would  not  soon  be 
cpielled. 

Alva.  You  utter  words  to  which  I ought 
not  to  listen  ; — I,  too,  am  a foreigner. 

Egmont.  That  they  are  spoken  in  your 
presence  is  a sufficient  proof  that  they  have  no 
reference  to  you. 

Alva.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I would  rather 
not  hear  them  from  you.  The  King  sent  me 
here  in  the  hope  that  I should  obtain  the 
support  of  the  nobles.  The  King  wills,  and 
will  have  his  will  obeyed.  After  profound 
deliberation,  the  King  at  length  discerns  what 
course  will  best  promote  the  welfare  of  the 
people  ; matters  cannot  be  permitted  to  go  on 


as  heretofore;  it  is  the  King’s  intention  to 
limit  their  power  for  their  own  good  ; if  neces- 
sary, to  force  upon  them  their  salvation  ; to 
sacrifice  the  more  dangerous  burghers  in  order 
that  the  rest  may  find  repose,  and  enjoy  in 
peace  the  blessing  of  a wise  government.  This 
is  his  resolve  ; this  I am  commissioned  to  an- 
nounce to  the  nobles;  and  in  his  name  I re- 
quire from  them  advice,  not  as  to  the  course 
to  be  pursued — on  that  he  is  resolved — but  as 
to  the  best  means  of  carrying  his  purpose  into 
effedl. 

Egmont.  Your  words,  alas,  justify  the 
fears  of  the  people,  the  universal  fear  ! The 
King  has  then  resolved  as  no  sovereign  ought 
to  resolve.  In  order  to  govern  his  subjedls 
more  easily,  he  would  crush,  subvert,  nay, 
ruthlessly  destroy,  their  strength,  their  spirit 
and  their  self-respe6t  ! He  would  violate  the 
inmost  core  of  their  individuality,  doubtless 
with  the  view  of  promoting  their  happiness. 
He  would  annihilate  them,  that  they  may  as- 


226 


ARTIST  : C.  HABERLIN. 


EGMON'r.  ACT  IV,  SCENE  II. 


THE  ARREST  OF  COUNT  EGMONT 


sume  a new,  a different  form.  Oh  ! if  his  pur- 
pose be  good,  he  is  fatally  misguided  ! It  is 
not  the  King  whom  we  resist ; — we  but  place 
ourselves  in  the  way  of  the  monarch,  who,  un- 
happily, is  about  to  take  the  first  rash  step  in 
a wrong  diredtion. 

Alva.  Such  being  your  sentiments,  it  were 
a vain  attempt  for  us  to  endeavor  to  agree.  You 
must  indeed  think  poorly  of  the  King,  and 
contemptibly  of  his  counsellors,  if  you  imagine 
that  everything  has  not  already  been  thought  of 
and  maturely  weighed.  I have  no  commission 
a second  time  to  balance  conflidling  arguments. 
From  the  people  I demand  submission  ; — and 
from  you,  their  leaders  and  princes,  I demand 
counsel  and  support,  as  pledges  of  this  uncon- 
ditional duty. 

Egmont.  Demand  our  heads,  and  your 
objedl  is  attained  ; to  a noble  soul  it  must  be 
indifferent  whether  he  stoop  his  neck  to  such 
a yoke,  or  lay  it  upon  the  block.  I have 
spoken  much  to  little  purpose.  I have  agitated 
the  air,  but  accomplished  nothing. 

Ente?-  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand.  Pardon  my  intrusion.  Here 
is  a letter,  the  bearer  of  which  urgently  de- 
mands an  answer. 

Alva.  Allow  me  to  peruse  its  contents. 
( Steps  aside. ) 

Ferdinand.  (7b  Egmont.)  ’Tis  a noble 
steed  that  your  people  have  brought  to  carry 
you  away. 

Egmont.  I have  seen  worse.  I have  had 
him  some  time  ; I think  of  parting  with  him. 
If  he  pleases  you  we  shall  probably  soon  agree 
as  to  the  price. 

Ferdinand.  We  will  think  about  it. 

[Alva  motions  to  his  son,  svho  retires  to  the 
background. 

Egmont.  Farewell!  Allow  me  to  retire; 
for,  by  Heaven,  I know  not  what  more  I can  say. 


Alva.  Fortunately  for  you,  chance  pre- 
vents you  from  making  a fuller  disclosure  of 
your  sentiments.  You  incautiously  lay  bare 
the  recesses  of  your  heart,  and  your  own  lips 
furnish  evidence  against  you,  more  fatal 
than  could  be  produced  by  your  bitterest  ad- 
versary. 

Egmont.  This  reproach  disturbs  me  not. 
I know  my  own  heart ; I know  with  what 
honest  zeal  I am  devoted  to  the  King ; I 
know  that  my  allegiance  is  more  true  than 
that  of  many  who,  in  his  service,  seek  only  to 
serve  themselves.  I regret  that  our  discussion 
should  terminate  so  unsatisfadlorily,  and  trust 
that  in  spite  of  our  opposing  views,  the  ser- 
vice of  the  King,  our  master,  and  the  welfare 
of  our  country,  may  speedily  unite  us;  another 
conference,  the  presence  of  the  princes  who 
to-day  are  absent,  may,  perchance,  in  a more 
propitious  moment,  accomplish  what  at  present 
appears  impossible.  In  this  hope  I take  my 
leave. 

Alva.  ( Who  at  the  same  time  makes  a sign 
to  Ferdinand.)  Hold,  Egmont! — Your 
sword  ! — ( The  centre  door  opens  and  discloses 
the  gallery,  which  is  occupied  ivith  guards,  who 
remain  motionless. ) 

Egmont.  (After  a pause  of  astonishment.) 
This  was  the  intention?  For  this  thou  hast 
summoned  me  ? ( Grasping  his  sword  as  if  to 

defend  himself. ) Am  I then  weaponless? 

Alva.  'I'he  King  commands  thou  art  my 
prisoner.  ( At  the  same  time  guards  enter  from 
both  sides.) 

Egmont.  (After  a pause.)  The  King? — 
Orange!  Orange!  (After  a pause,  resigning 
his  sword.)  'lake  it ! It  has  been  employed 
far  oftener  in  defending  the  cause  of  my  King 
than  in  protedling  this  breast. 

[77(?  retires  by  the  centre  door,  followed  by 
the  guard  and  i\LVA’s  son.  Alva  remains 
standing  while  the  curtain  falls. 


227 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  \.—A  Street.  T^vilight. 

Clara,  Brackenburg,  Burghers. 

Brackenburg.  Dearest,  for  Heaven’s  sake, 
what  would’st  thou  do? 

Clara.  Come  with  me,  Brackenburg ! 
d'hou  canst  not  know  the  people ; we  are 
certain  to  rescue  him ; for  wliat  can  equal 
their  love  for  him?  Each  feels,  I could 
swear  it,  the  burning  desire  to  deliver  him, 
to  avert  danger  from  a life  so  precious,  and 
to  restore  freedom  to  the  most  free.  Come  ! 
A voice  only  is  wanting  to  call  them  together. 
In  their  souls  the  memory  is  still  fresh  of  all 
they  owe  him,  and  well  they  know  that  his 
mighty  arm  alone  shields  them  from  destruc- 
tion. For  his  sake,  for  their  own  sake,  they 
must  peril  everything.  And  what  do  we  peril? 
At  most,  our  lives,  which,  if  he  perish,  are 
not  worth  preserving. 


Brackenburg.  Unhappy  girl ! Thou  seest 
not  the  power  that  holds  us  fettered  as  with 
bands  of  iron. 

Clara.  To  me  it  does  not  appear  invin- 
cible. Let  us  not  lose  time  in  idle  words. 
Here  come  some  of  our  old,  honest,  valiant 
burghers  ! Hark  ye,  friends  ! Neighbors  ! 
Hark  ! — Say,  how  fares  it  with  Egmont? 

Carpenter.  What  does  the  girl  want? 
Tell  her  to  hold  her  peace. 

Clara.  Step  nearer,  that  we  may  speak 
low,  till  we  are  united  and  more  strong. 
Not  a moment  is  to  be  lost ! Audacious 
tyranny,  that  dared  to  fetter  him,  already  lifts 
the  dagger  against  his  life.  Oh,  my  friends  ! 
With  the  advancing  twilight  my  anxiety  grows 
more  intense.  I dread  this  night.  Come ! 
Let  us  disperse  ; let  us  hasten  from  quarter  to 
quarter,  and  call  out  the  burghers.  Let  every 
one  grasp  his  ancient  weapons.  In  the  market- 


228 


place  we  meet  again,  and  every  one  will  be 
carried  onward  by  our  gathering  stream.  The 
enemy  will  see  themselves  surrounded,  over- 
whelmed, and  be  compelled  to  yield.  How 
can  a handful  of  slaves  resist  us  ? And  he 
will  return  among  us,  he  will  see  himself 
rescued,  and  can  for  once  thank  us — us,  who 
are  already  so  deeply  in  his  debt.  He  will 
behold,  perchance,  ay  doubtless,  he  will  again 
behold  the  morn’s  red  dawn  in  the  free 
heavens. 

Carpenter.  What  ails  thee,  maiden  ? 

Clara.  Can  ye  misunderstand  me  ? I 
speak  of  the  Count ! I speak  of  Egmont. 

Jetter.  Speak  not  the  name  ! ’tis  deadly. 

Clara.  Not  speak  his  name?  How?  Not 
Egmont’s  name?  Is  it  not  on  every  tongue? 
Where  stands  it  not  inscribed?  Often  have  I 
read  it  emblazoned  with  all  its  letters  among 
these  stars.  Not  utter  it?  What  mean  ye? 
Friends!  good,  kind  neighbors,  ye  are  dream- 
ing ; colledl  yourselves.  Gaze  not  upon  me 
with  tho.se  fixed  and  anxious  looks ! Cast 
not  such  timid  glances  on  every  side  ! I but 
give  utterance  to  the  wish  of  all.  Is  not  my 
voice  the  voice  of  your  own  hearts?  Who, 
in  this  fearful  night,  ere  he  seeks  his  restless 
couch,  but  on  bended  knee  will,  in  earnest 
prayer,  seek  to  wrest  his  life  as  a cherished 
boon  from  heaven  ? Ask  each  other  ! Let 
each  ask  his  own  heart ! And  who  but 
exclaims  with  me, — “ Egniont’s  liberty,  or 
death  !” 

Jetter.  God  help  us!  This  is  a sad 
business. 

Clara.  Stay  ! stay  ! Shrink  not  away  at 
the  sound  of  his  name,  to  meet  whom  ye  were 
wont  to  press  forward  so  joyously  ! — When 
rumor  announced  his  approach,  when  the  cry 
arose,  “Egmont  comes!  He  comes  from 
Ghent !’’ — then  happy  indeed  were  those 
citizens  who  dwelt  in  the  streets  through 
which  he  was  to  pass.  And  when  the  neigh- 
ing of  his  steed  was  heard,  did  not  every  one 
throw  aside  his  work,  while  a ray  of  hope  and 
joy,  like  a sunbeam  from  his  countenance,  | 
stole  over  the  toil-worn  faces  that  peered  from  i 
every  window.  Then,  as  ye  stood  in  the  | 
doorways,  ye  would  lift  up  your  children  in 
your  arms,  and  pointing  to  him,  exclaim : 

“ See,  that  is  Egmont,  he  who  towers  above 
the  rest ! ’Tis  from  him  that  ye  must  look 
for  better  times  than  those  your  poor  fathers 
have  known.’’  Let  not  your  children  inquire 
at  some  future  day,  “Where  is  he?  Where 
are  the  better  times  ye  promised  us?” — Thus 


we  waste  the  time  in  idle  words  ! do  nothing,— 
betray  him. 

SoEST.  Shame  on  thee,  Brackenburg  ! I.et 
her  not  run  on  thus  ! Prevent  the  mischief! 

Brackenburg.  Dear  Clara  ! Let  us  go  ! 
What  will  your  mother  say?  Perchance — 

Clara.  Thinkest  thou  I am  a child,  or 
frantic?  What  avails  perchance? — With  no 
vain  Impe  canst  thou  hide  from  me  this  dread- 
ful certainty  ....  Ye  shall  hear  me  and 
ye  will ; for  I see  it,  ye  are  overwhelmed,  ye 
cannot  hearken  to  the  voice  of  your  own 
hearts.  Through  the  present  peril  cast  but 
one  glance  into  the  past, — the  recent  past. 
Send  your  thoughts  forward  into  the  future. 
Could  ye  live,  would  ye  live,  were  he  to 
perish?  With  him  expires  the  last  breath  of 
freedom.  What  was  he  not  to  you  ? For 
whose  sake  did  he  expose  himself  to  the  direst 
perils?  His  blood  flowed,  his  wounds  were 
healed  for  you  alone.  The  mighty  spirit, 
that  upheld  you  all,  a dungeon  now  confines, 
while  the  horrors  of  secret  murder  are  hover- 
ing around.  Perhaps  he  thinks  of  you — per- 
haps he  hopes  in  you, — he  who  has  been  ac- 
customed only  to  grant  favors  to  others  and 
to  fulfil  their  prayers. 

Carpenter.  Come,  gossip. 

Clara.  I have  neither  the  arms,  nor  the 
vigor  of  a man  ; but  I have  that  which  ye  all 
lack — courage  and  contempt  of  danger.  Oh 
that  my  breath  could  kindle  your  souls  ! 
That,  pressing  you  to  this  bosom,  I could 
arouse  and  animate  you ! Come ! I will 
march  in  your  midst  ! — As  a waving  banner, 
though  weaponless,  leads  on  a gallant  army  of 
warriors,  so  shall  my  spirit  hover,  like  a flame, 
over  your  ranks,  while  love  and  courage  shall 
unite  the  dispersed  and  wavering  multitude 
into  a terrible  host. 

Jetter.  Take  her  away;  I pity  her,  poor 
thing  ! Burghers. 

Brackenburg.  Clara ! Seest  thou  not 
where  we  are? 

Clara.  Where?  Under  the  dome  of 
heaven,  which  has  so  often  seemed  to  arch 
itself  more  gloriously  as  the  noble  Egmont 
passed  beneath  it.  From  these  windows  I 
have  seen  them  look  forth,  four  or  five  heads 
one  above  the  other  ; at  these  doors  the  cow- 
ards have  stood,  bowing  and  scraping,  if  he 
but  chanced  to  look  down  upon  them  ! Oh, 
how  dear  they  were  to  me,  when  they  honored 
him.  Had  he  been  a tyrant  they  might  have 
turned  with  indifference  from  his  fall  ! But 
they  loved  him  ! O ye  hands,  so  prompt  to 


229 


wave  caps  in  his  honor,  can  ye  not  grasp  a 
sword?  Brackenburg,  and  we? — do  we  chide 
them  ? These  arms  that  have  so  often  em- 
braced him,  what  do  they  for  him  now? 
Stratagem  has  accomplished  so  much  in  the 
world.  Thou  knowest  the  ancient  castle, 
every  passage,  every  secret  way. — Nothing  is 
impossible, — suggest  some  plan — 

Brackenburg.  That  we  might  go  home  ! 

Clara.  Well. 

Br.ackenburg.  There  at  the  corner  I see 
Alva’s  guard;  let  the  voice  of  reason  penetrate 
to  thy  heart ! Dost  thou  deem  me  a coward  ? 
Dost  thou  doubt  that  for  thy  sake  I would 
peril  my  life?  Here  we  are  both  mad,  I as 
well  as  thou.  Dost  thou  not  perceive  that  thy 
scheme  is  impradlicable?  Oh,  becalm!  Thou 
art  beside  thyself. 

Clara.  Beside  myself!  Horrible.  You, 
Brackenburg,  are  beside  yourself.  When  you 
hailed  the  hero  with  loud  acclaim,  called  him 
your  friend  your  hope,  your  refuge,  shouted 
vivats  as  he  passed— then  I stood  in  my  cor- 
ner, half  opened  the  window,  concealed  my- 
self while  I listened,  and  my  heart  beat  higher 
than  yours  who  greeted  him  so  loudly.  Now 
it  again  beats  higher  ! In  the  hour  of  peril 
you  conceal  yourselves,  deny  him,  and  feel 
not,  that  if  he  perish,  you  are  lost. 

Brackenburg.  Come  home. 

Clara.  Home? 

Brackenburg.  Recoiled!  thyself!  Look 
around  thee  ! These  are  the  streets  in  which 
thou  wert  wont  to  appear  only  on  the  Sabbath- 
day,  when  thou  didst  walk  modestly  to  church ; 
where,  over-decorous  perhaps,  thou  wert  dis- 
pleased if  I but  joined  thee  with  a kindly 
greeting.  And  now  thou  dost  stand,  speak 
and  adl  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world. 
Recoiled!  thyself,  love  I How  can  this  avail 
us  ? 

Clara.  Home ! Yes,  I remember.  Come, 
Brackenburg,  let  us  go  home ! Knowest  thou 
where  my  home  lies  ? \^Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  A Prison. 

Lighted  by  a lamp,  a couch  in  the  background. 

Egmont.  (Alone.)  Old  friend  ! Ever 
faithful  sleep,  dost  thou  too  forsake  me,  like 
my  other  friends?  How  wert  thou  wont  of 
yore  to  descend  unsought  upon  my  free  brow,  | 


cooling  my  temples  as  with  a myrtle  wreath 
of  love  I Amidst  the  din  of  battle,  on  the 
waves  of  life,  I rested  in  thine  arms,  breathing 
lightly  as  a growing  boy.  When  tempests 
whistled  through  the  leaves  and  boughs,  when 
the  summits  of  the  lofty  trees  swung  creaking 
in  the  blast,  the  inmost  core  of  my  heart  re- 
mained unmoved.  What  agitates  thee  now? 
What  shakes  thy  firm  and  steadfast  mind  ? I 
feel  it,  ’tis  the  sound  of  the  murderous  axe, 
gnawing  at  thy  root.  Yet  I stand  ered!,  but 
an  inward  shudder  runs  through  my  frame. 
Yes,  it  prevails,  this  treacherous  power;  it 
undermines  the  firm,  the  lofty  stem,  and  ere 
the  bark  withers,  thy  verdant  crown  falls  crash- 
ing to  the  earth. 

Yet  wherefore  now,  thou  who  hast  so  often 
chased  the  weightiest  cares  like  bubbles  from 
thy  brow,  wherefore  canst  thou  not  dissipate 
this  dire  foreboding  which  incessantly  haunts 
thee  in  a thousand  different  shapes  ? Since 
when  hast  thou  trembled  at  the  approach  of 
death,  amid  whose  varying  forms  thou  wert 
wont  calmly  to  dwell,  as  with  the  other  shapes 
of  this  familiar  earth.  But  ’tis  not  he,  the 
sudden  foe,  to  encounter  whom  the  sound 
bosom  emulously  pants; — ’tis  the  dungeon, 
emblem  of  the  grave,  revolting  alike  to  the 
hero  and  the  coward.  How  intolerable  I 
used  to  feel  it,  in  the  stately  hall,  girt  round 
by  gloomy  walls,  when,  seated  on  my  cushioned 
chair,  in  the  solemn  assembly  of  the  princes, 
questions,  M'hich  scarcely  required  delibera- 
tion, were  overlaid  with  endless  discussions, 
while  the  rafters  of  the  ceiling  seemed  to  stifle 
and  oppress  me.  Then  I would  hurry  forth 
as  soon  as  possible,  fling  myself  upon  my 
horse  with  deep-drawn  breath,  and  away  to 
the  wide  champaign,  man’s  natural  element, 
where,  exhaling  from  the  earth,  nature’s  rich- 
est treasures  are  jioured  forth  around  us,  while, 
from  the  wide  heavens,  the  stars  shed  down 
their  blessings  through  the  still  air ; where, 
like  earth-born  giants,  we  spring  aloft,  invig- 
orated by  our  mother’s  touch  ; where  our 
entire  humanity  and  our  human  desires  throb 
in  every  vein ; where  the  desire  to  press  for- 
ward, to  vanquish,  to  snatch,  to  use  his 
clenched  fist,  to  possess,  to  conquer,  glows 
through  the  soul  of  the  young  hunter ; where 
the  warrior,  with  rapid  stride,  assumes  his  in- 
born right  to  dominion  over  the  world  ; and, 
with  terrible  liberty,  sweeps  like  a desolating 
hailstorm  over  field  and  grove,  knowing  no 
boundaries  traced  by  the  hand  of  man. 

Thou  art  but  a shadow,  a dream  of  the  hap- 


230 


piness  I so  long  possessed.  Where  has  treach- 
erous fate  conduced  thee?  Did  she  deny 
thee  to  meet  the  rapid  stroke  of  never-shunned 
death,  in  the  open  face  of  day,  only  to  jire- 
pare  for  thee  a foretaste  of  the  grave,  in  the 
midst  of  this  loathsome  corruption  ? How 
revoltingly  its  rank  odor  exhales  from  these 
damp  stones  ! Life  stagnates,  and  my  foot 
shrinks  from  the  couch  as  from  the  grave. 


Oh,  care,  care ! 'rhou  who  dost  begin 
prematurely  the  work  of  murder, — forbear. — 
Since  when  has  Egmont  been  alone,  so  utterly 
alone  in  the  world?  ’Tis  doubt  renders  thee 
insensible,  not  hajipiness.  'The  justice  of  the 
King,  in  which,  through  life  thou  hast  con- 
fided, the  friendship  of  the  Regent,  which, 
thou  may’st  confess  it,  was  akin  to  love, — 
have  these  suddenly  vanished,  like  a meteor 


of  the  night,  and  left  thee  alone  upon  thy  j 
gloomy  path  ? Will  not  Orange,  at  the  head 
of  thy  friends,  contrive  some  daring  scheme  ? 
Will  not  the  people  assemble,  and  with  gather- 
ing might,  attempt  the  rescue  of  their  faith- 
ful friend  ? 

Ye  walls,  which  thus  gird  me  round,  sepa- 
rate me  not  from  the  well-intentioned  zeal 
of  so  many  kindly  souls.  And  may  the  cour- 
age with  which  my  glance  was  wont  to  inspire 
them,  now  return  again  from  their  hearts  to 
mine.  Yes ! they  assemble  in  thousands ! 
they  come  ! they  stand  beside  me  ! their  pious 
wish  rises  urgently  to  heaven,  and  implores  a 
miracle ; and  if  no  angel  stoops  for  my  de- 
liverance, I see  them  grasp  eagerly  their  lance 
and  sword.  The  gates  are  forced,  the  bolts 
are  riven,  the  walls  fall  beneath  their  conquer- 
ing hands,  and  Egmont  advances  joyously, 
to  hail  the  freedom  of  the  rising  morn.  How 
many  well-known  faces  receive  me  with  loud 
acclaim  ! Oh,  Clara  ! wert  thou  a man,  I 
should  see  thee  here  the  very  first,  and  thank 
thee  for  that  which  it  is  galling  to  owe  even 
to  a king — liberty. 


SCENE  III.— Clara’s  house. 

Clara.  ( Enters  from  her  ehamber  with  a 
lamp  and  a glass  of  water ; she  places  the  glass 
upon  the  table  a?id  steps  to  the  window.) 
Krackenburg,  is  it  you?  What  noise  was 
that?  No  one  yet  ? No  one  ! I will  set  the 
lamp  in  the  window,  that  he  may  see  that  I 
am  still  awake,  that  I still  watch  for  him.  He 
promised  me  tidings.  Tidings?  horrible  cer- 
tainty!— Egmont  condemned  ! — what  tribunal 
has  the  right  to  summon  him  ? — And  they  dare 
to  condemn  him  ! — Does  the  King  condemn 
him,  or  the  Duke  ? And  the  Regent  with- 
draws herself!  Orange  hesitates,  and  all  his 
friends  ! — Is  this  the  world  of  whose  fickle- 
ness and  treachery  I have  heard  so  much,  and 
as  yet  experienced  nothing?  Is  this  the 
world  ? — Who  could  be  so  base  as  to  bear 
malice  against  one  so  dear  ? Could  villainy 
itself  be  audacious  enough  to  overwhelm  with 
sudden  destruction  the  objedt  of  a nation’s 
homage?  Yet  so  it  is — it  is.  O Egmont,  I 
held  thee  safe  before  God  and  man,  safe  as 
in  my  arms!  What  was  I to  thee?  Thou 
hast  called  me  thine,  my  whole  being  was 
devoted  to  thee?  What  am  I now?  In  vain 


I stretch  out  my  hand  to  the  toils  that  environ 
thee.  Tliou  helpless  and  I free  ! — Here  is 
the  key  that  unlocks  my  chamber  door.  My 
going  out  and  my  coming  in  depend  upon 
my  own  caprice ; yet,  alas,  to  aid  thee  I am 
powerless  ! — Oh,  bind  me  that  I may  not  de- 
spair t hurl  me  into  the  deepest  dungeon,  that 
I may  dash  my  head  against  the  damp  walls, 
groan  for  freedom,  and  dream  how  I would 
rescue  him  if  fetters  did  not  hold  me  bound. 

Now  I ain  free,  and  in  freedom  lies  the  anguish 
of  impotence.  Conscious  of  my  own  exist- 
ence, yet  unable  to  stir  a limb  in  his  behalf, 
alas ! even  this  insignificant  portion  of  thy 
being,  thy  Clara,  is,  like  thee,  a captive,  and, 
separated  from  thee,  consumes  her  expiring 
energies  in  the  agonies  of  death.  I hear  a 
stealthy  step, — a cough — Brackenburg, — ’tis 
he! — Kind,  unhappy  man,  thy  destiny  re- 
mains ever  the  same ; thy  love  opens  to  thee 
the  door  at  night,  alas  ! to  what  a doleful 
meeting.  (Enter  Brackenburg. j Thou 
com’st  so  pale,  so  terrified  ! Brackenburg  ! 

What  is  it  ? 

Brackenburg.  I have  sought  thee  through 
perils  and  circuitous  paths.  The  principal 
streets  are  occupied  with  troops ; — through 
lanes  and  by-ways  have  I stolen  to  thee  ! < 

Clara.  Tell  me,  how  is  it  ? 1 

Brackenburg.  (Seating himst If .)  O Clara,  i 

let  me  weep.  I loved  him  not.  He  was  the 
ri(  h man  v ho  lured  to  better  pasture  the  poor  ' 

man’s  solitary  lamb.  I have  never  cursed  J 

him.  God  has  created  me  with  a true  and  ; 

tender  heart.  My  life  was  consumed  in  an-  ; 

guish,  and  each  day  I hoped  would  end  my 
misery.  ; 

Clara.  Let  that  be  forgotten,  Bracken-  ■ 

btirg  ! Forget  thyself.  Speak  to  me  of  him  ! 

Is  it  true  ? Is  he  condemned  ? 

Brackenburg.  He  is ! I know  it.  j 

Clara.  And  still  lives  ? t 

Brackenburg.  Yes,  he  still  lives.  i 

Clara.  How  canst  thou  be  sure  of  that  ? 

Tyranny  murders  the  hero  in  the  night  ! His 
blood  flows  concealed  from  every  eye.  The 
people  stunned  and  bewildered,  lie  buried  in 
sleep,  dream  of  deliverance,  dream  of  the 
fulfilment  of  their  impotent  wishes,  while, 
indignant  at  our  supineness,  his  spirit  aban- 
dons the  world.  He  is  no  more  ! Deceive 
me  not ; deceive  not  thyself ! 

Brackenburg.  No, — he  lives ! and  the 

Spaniards,  alas,  are  preparing  for  the  people, 
on  whom  they  are  about  to  trample,  a terrible 
spedtacle,  in  order  to  crush  forever,  by  a 


232 


iiiiK 


artist:  c.  haberlin. 


EGMONT. 


ACT  V,  SCENE  III. 


CLARA  AND  UKACKENBURG. 


violent  blow,  each  heart  that  yet  pants  for 
freedom. 

Clara.  Proceed  ! Calmly  pronounce  my 
death-warrant  also  ! Near  and  more  near  I 
approach  that  blessed  land,  and  already  from 
those  realms  of  peace  I feel  the  breath  of  con- 
solation. Say  on  ! 

Brackenburg.  From  casual  words,  dropped 
here  and  there  by  the  guards,  I learned  that 
secretly  in  the  market-place  they  were  pre- 
paring some  terrible  spedtacle.  Through  by- 
ways and  familiar  lanes  I stole  to  my  cousin’s 
house,  and  from  a back  window  looked  out 
upon  the  market-place.  Torches  waved  to 
and  fro,  in  the  hands  of  a wide  circle  of  Span- 
ish soldiers.  I sharpened  my  unaccustomed 
sight,  and  out  of  the  darkness  there  arose  be- 
fore me  a scaffold,  black,  spacious  and  lofty  ! 
The  sight  filled  me  with  horror.  Several  per- 
sons were  employed  in  covering  with  black 
cloth  such  portions  of  the  woodwork  as  yet 
remained  white  and  visible.  The  steps  were 
covered  last,  also  with  black ; — I saw  it  all. 
They  seemed  preparing  for  the  celebration  of 
some  horrible  sacrifice.  A white  crucifix,  that 
shone  like  silver  through  the  night,  was  raised 
on  one  side.  As  I gazed,  the  terrible  convic- 
tion strengthened  in  my  mind.  Scattered 
torches  still  gleamed  here  and  there ; grad- 
ually they  flickered  and  went  out.  Suddenly 
the  hideous  birth  of  night  returned  into  its 
mother’s  womb. 

Clara.  Hush,  Brackenburg ! Be  still  ! 
Let  this  veil  rest  upon  my  soul.  The  spec- 
tres are  vanished ; and  thou,  gentle  night, 
lend  thy  mantle  to  the  inwardly  fermenting 
earth  ; she  will  no  longer  endure  the  loathsome 
burden  ; shuddering,  she  rends  open  her  yawn- 
ing chasms,  and  with  a crash  swallows  the 
murderous  scaffold.  And  that  God,  whom 
in  their  rage  they  have  insulted,  sends  down 
His  angel  from  on  high ; at  the  hallowed 
touch  of  the  messenger  bolts  and  bars  fly 
back ; he  pours  around  our  friend  a mild 
radiance,  and  leads  him  gently  through  the 
night  to  liberty.  My  path  leads  also  through 
the  darkness  to  meet  him. 

Brackenburg.  ( Detaining  her. ) My  child, 
whither  would’st  thou  go?  What  would’st  thou 
do  ? 

Clara.  Softly,  my  friend,  lest  some  one 
should  awake  ! Lest  we  should  awake  our- 
selves ! Know’st  thou  this  phial,  Brackenburg? 

I took  it  from  thee  once  in  jest,  when  thou,  as 
was  thy  wont,  didst  threaten,  in  thy  impa-  j 
tience,  to  end  thy  days. — And  now,  my  friend — 1 


Brackenburg.  In  the  name  of  all  the 
saints  ! 

Clara.  Thou  canst  not  hinder  me.  Death 
is  my  portion  ! Grudge  me  not  the  quiet  and 
easy  death  which  thou  hadst  prepared  for  thy- 
self. Give  me  thine  hand  ! — At  the  moment 
when  I unclose  that  dismal  portal  through 
which  there  is  no  return,  I may  tell  thee,  with 
this  pressure  of  the  hand,  how  sincerely  I have 
loved,  how  deeply  I have  pitied  thee.  My 
brother  died  young;  I chose  thee  to  fill  his 
place;  thy  heart  rebelled,  thou  didst  torment 
thyself  and  me,  demanding  with  ever  increas- 
ing fervor  that  which  fate  had  not  destined 
for  thee.  Forgive  me  and  farewell  ! Let  me 
call  thee  brother  ! ’Tis  a name  that  embraces 
many  names.  Receive,  with  a true  heart,  the 
last  fair  token  of  the  departing  spirit — take 
this  kiss.  Death  unites  all,  Brackenburg — us 
too  it  will  unite  ! 

Brackenburg.  Let  me  then  die  with  thee! 
Share  it ! oh,  share  it ! There  is  enough  to 
extinguish  two  lives. 

Clara.  Hold  ! Thou  must  live,  thou 
canst  live. — Support  my  mother,  who,  with- 
out thee,  would  be  a prey  to  want.  Be  to 
her  what  I can  no  longer  be,  live  together, 
and  weep  for  me.  Weep  for  our  fatherland, 
and  for  him  who  could  alone  have  upheld  it. 
The  present  generation  must  still  endure  this 
bitter  woe ; vengeance  itself  could  not  oblit- 
erate it.  Poor  souls,  live  on,  through  this  gap 
in  time,  which  is  time  no  longer.  To-day 
the  world  suddenly  stands  still,  its  course  is 
arrested,  and  my  pulse  will  beat  but  for  a few 
minutes  longer.  Farewell. 

Brackenburg.  Oh,  live  with  us,  as  we  live 
only  for  thy  sake!  In  taking  thine  own  life, 
thou  wilt  take  ours  also;  still  live  and  suffer. 
We  will  stand  by  thee,  nothing  shall  sever  us 
from  thy  side,  and  love,  with  ever-watchful 
solicitude,  shall  prepare  for  thee  the  sweetest 
consolation  in  its  loving  arms.  Be  ours!  Ours! 
I dare  not  say,  mine. 

Clara.  Hush,  Brackenburg  ! Thou  feelest 
not  what  chord  thou  touchest.  Where  hope 
appears  to  thee,  I see  only  despair. 

Brackenburg.  Share  hope  with  the  living ! 
Pau.se  on  the  brink  of  the  precijnce,  cast  one 
glance  into  the  gulf  below,  and  then  look 
back  on  us. 

Clara.  I have  conquered ; call  me  not 
back  to  the  struggle. 

Brackenburg.  Thou  art  stunned  ; envel- 
oped in  night,  thou  seekest  the  abyss.  Every 
light  is  not  yet  extinguished,  yet  many  days  ! — ■ 


233 


Clara.  Alas ! alas ! Cruelly  thou  dost 
rend  the  veil  from  before  mine  eyes.  Yes, 
the  day  will  dawn  ! Des])ite  its  misty  shroud 
it  needs  must  dawn.  'I'iniidly  the  burgher 
gazes  from  his  window,  night  leaves  behind 
an  ebon  speck ; he  looks,  and  the  scaffold 
looms  fearfully  in  the  morning  light.  With 
re-awakened  anguish  the  desecrated  image  of 
the  Saviour  lifts  to  the  Father  its  imploring 
eyes.  The  sun  veils  his  beams,  he  will  not 
mark  the  hero’s  death-hour.  Slowly  the  fingers 
go  their  round — one  hour  strikes  after  an- 
other— hold  ! Now  is  the  time.  The  thought 
of  the  morning  scares  me  into  the  grave. 
goes  to  the  window  as  if  to  look  out,  and 
drinks  secretly. 

Brackenburo.  Clara ! Clara ! 

Cl.\ra.  { Goes  to  the  table,  and  drinks 
water.)  Here  is  the  remainder.  I invite  thee 
not  to  follow  me.  Do  as  thou  wilt ; farewell. 
E.xtinguish  this  lamp  silently  and  without  de- 
lay ; I am  going  to  rest.  Steal  quietly  away, 
close  the  door  after  thee.  Be  still  ! Wake 
not  my  mother  ! Go,  save  thyself,  if  thou 
would’st  not  be  taken  for  my  murderer. 

■\_Exit. 


Brackenhurg.  She  leaves  me  for  the  last 
time  as  she  has  ever  done.  What  human  soul 
could  conceive  how  cruelly  she  lacerates  the 
heart  that  loves  her.  She  leaves  me  to  myself, 
leaves  me  to  choose  between  life  and  death, 
and  both  are  alike  hateful  to  me.  To  die 
alone  ! Weep,  ye  tender  souls  ! Fate  has  no 
sadder  doom  than  mine.  She  shares  with  me 
the  death-potion,  yet  sends  me  from  her  side  ! 
She  draws  me  after  her,  yet  thrusts  me  back 
into  life  ! Oh,  Egmont,  how  enviable  a lot 
falls  to  thee  ! She  goes  before  thee ! Tlie 
crown  of  vidlory  from  her  hand  is  thine;  she 
brings  all  heaven  to  meet  thee  ! — And  shall  I 
follow?  Again  to  stand  aloof?  To  carry 
this  inextinguishable  jealousy  even  to  yon 
distant  realms?  Earth  is  no  longer  a tarry- 
ing place  for  me,  and  hell  and  heaven  offer 
equal  torture.  Now  welcome  to  the  wretched 
the  dread  hand  of  annihilation  ! [A'avV. 

[ 7he  scene  remains  some  time  unchanged . 
Music  sounds,  indicating  Clara’s  death  ; 
the  lamp,  which  Brackenhurg  had  for- 
gotten to  extinguish,  flares  tip  once  or 
twice,  and  then  suddenly  expires.  The 
scene  changes. 


23-1 


SCENE  lY.—A  Prison. 

[Egmont  is  discovered  sleeping  on  a couch. 
A rustling  of  keys  is  heard ; the  door 
opens;  servants  enter  with  torches;  Fer- 
dinand and  'iiiMK  follow,  accompanied  by 
soldiers.  Egmont  starts  from  his  sleep. 

Egmont.  Who  are  ye  that  thus  rudely  ban- 
ish slumber  from  my  eyes?  What  mean  these 
vague  and  insolent  glances?  Why  this  fearful 
procession  ? With  what  dream  of  horror 
come  ye  to  delude  my  half-awakened  soul  ? 

Silva.  The  Duke  sends  us  to  announce 
your  sentence. 

Egmont.  Do  ye  also  bring  the  headsman 
who  is  to  execute  it  ? 

Silva.  Listen,  and  you  will  know  the  doom 
that  awaits  you. 

Egmont.  It  is  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of 
your  infamous  proceedings.  Hatched  in  night 
and  in  night  achieved,  so  would  this  audacious 
a6t  of  injustice  shroud  itself  from  observation  ! 
— Step  boldly  forth,  thou  who  dost  bear  the 
sword  concealed  beneath  thy  mantle  ; here  is 
my  head,  the  freest  ever  severed  by  tyranny 
from  the  trunk. 

Silva.  You  err ! The  righteous  judges 
who  have  condemned  you  will  not  conceal 
their  sentence  from  the  light  of  day. 

Egmont.  Then  does  their  audacity  exceed 
all  imagination  and  belief. 

Silva.  ( Takes  the  sentence  from  an  attendant, 
unfolds  it,  and  reads  :)  “ In  the  King’s  name, 
invested  by  his  Majesty  with  authority  to  judge 
all  his  subjehls  of  whatever  rank,  not  excepting 
knights  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  we  declare — ” 

Egmont.  Can  the  King  transfer  that  author- 
ity ? 

Silva.  “We  declare,  after  a strihl  and 
legal  investigation,  thee,  Henry,  Count  Eg- 
mont, Prince  of  Gaure,  guilty  of  high  treason, 
and  pronounce  thy  sentence:  That  at  early 
dawn  thou  be  led  from  this  prison  to  the 
market-place,  and  that  there,  in  sight  of  the 
people,  and  as  a warning  to  all  traitors,  thou 
with  the  sword  be  brouglit  from  life  to  death.  | 
Given  at  Brussels.”  ( Date  and  year  so  indis- 
tinflly  read  as  to  be  imperfedlly  heard  by  the 
audience.)  “Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Alva,  Pres- 
ident of  the  Tribunal  of  Twelve.”  'Fhou  know- 
est  now  thy  doom.  Brief  time  remains  for 
thee  to  prepare  for  the  impending  stroke,  to  ar- 
range thy  affairs  and  take  leave  of  thy  friends. 

[A'jrf?  Silva  tvith  followers.  Ferdinand  re- 
mains  with  two  torch-bearers.  The  stage 
is  dimly  lighted. 


Egmont.  ( Stands  for  a time  as  if  buried  in 
thought,  and  alloivs  Silva  to  retire  without 
looking  round.  He  imagines  himself  alone, 
and,  on  raising  his  eyes,  beholds  Alva’s  son.) 
Thou  tarriest  here  ? Would’st  thou  by  thy 
presence  augment  my  amazement,  my  horror? 
Would’st  thou  carry  to  thy  father  the  welcome 
tidings  that  in  unmanly  fashion  I despair?  Go  ! 
tell  him  that  he  deceives  neither  the  world 
nor  me.  At  first  it  will  be  whispered  cautiously 
behind  his  back,  then  spoken  more  and  more 
loudly,  and  when  at  some  future  day  the  am- 
bitious man  descends  from  his  proud  eminence, 
a thousand  voices  will  proclaim — that  ’twas 
not  the  welfare  of  the  state,  not  the  honor  of 
the  King,  not  the  tranquillity  of  the  provinces, 
that  brought  him  hither.  For  his  own  selfish 
ends  he,  the  warrior,  has  counselled  war,  that 
in  war  the  value  of  his  services  might  be 
enhanced.  He  has  excited  this  monstrous 
insurrehlion  that  his  presence  might  be  deemed 
necessary  in  order  to  quell  it.  And  I fall  a 
vihtim  to  his  mean  hatred,  his  contemptible 
envy.  Yes,  I know  it,  dying  and  mortally 
wounded  I may  utter  it ; long  has  the  proud 
man  envied  me,  long  has  he  meditated  and 
planned  my  ruin. 

Even  then,  when  still  young,  we  played  at 
dice  together,  and  the  heaps  of  gold,  one  after 
the  other,  passed  rapidly  from  his  side  to 
mine ; he  would  look  on  with  affehled  com- 
posure, while  inwardly  consumed  with  rage, 
more  at  my  success  than  at  his  own  loss.  Well 
do  I remember  the  fiery  glance,  the  treach- 
erous pallor  that  overspread  his  features  when, 
at  a public  festival,  we  shot  for  a wager  before 
assembled  thousands.  He  challenged  me,  and 
both  nations  stood  by;  Spaniards  and  Nether- 
landers  wagered  on  either  side ; I was  the 
vidlor ; his  ball  missed,  mine  hit  the  mark, 
and  the  air  was  rent  by  acclamations  from 
my  friends.  His  shot  now  hits  me.  Tell  him 
that  I know  this,  that  I know  him,  that  the 
world  despises  every  trophy  that  a paltry  spirit 
eredls  for  itself  by  base  and  surreptitious  arts. 
And  thou  ! If  it  be  possible  for  a son  to 
swerve  from  the  manners  of  his  father,  prahlise 
shame  betimes,  while  thou  art  compelled  to 
feel  shame  for  him  whom  thou  would’st  fain 
revere  with  thy  whole  heart. 

Ferdinand.  I listen  without  interrupting 
thee  ! Thy  reproaches  fall  like  blows  upon  a 
helmet.  I feel  the  shock,  but  I am  armed. 

I They  strike,  they  wound  me  not ; I am  sen- 
j sible  only  to  the  anguish  that  lacerates  my 
1 heart.  Alas  ! alas  ! Have  I lived  to  witness 


235 


such  a scene?  Am  I sent  hither  to  behold  a 
spedlacle  like  this? 

Egmont.  Dost  thou  break  out  into  lamen- 
tations? What  moves,  what  agitates  thee 
thus?  Is  it  a late  remorse  at  having  lent  thy- 
self to  this  infamous  conspiracy?  'bhou  art 
so  young,  thy  exterior  is  so  prepossessing,  d'hy 
demeanor  towards  me  was  so  friendly,  so  un- 
reserved ! So  long  as  I beheld  thee,  I was 


reconciled  with  thy  father ; and  crafty,  ay, 
more  crafty  than  he,  thou  hast  lured  me  into 
the  toils.  Thou  art  the  wretch  ! The  mon- 
ster ! Whoso  confides  in  him,  does  so  at  his 
own  peril ; but  who  could  apprehend  danger 
in  trusting  thee  ? Go  ! go  ! rob  me  not  of 
the  few  moments  that  are  left  to  me  ! Go, 
that  I may  colledl  my  thoughts,  the  world 
forget,  and  first  of  all  thyself! 


236 


Ferdinand.  What  can  I say?  I stand 
and  gaze  on  thee,  yet  see  thee  not ; I am 
scarcely  conscious  of  my  own  existence. 
Shall  I seek  to  excuse  myself?  Shall  I assure 
thee  that  it  was  not  till  the  last  moment  that 
I was  made  aware  of  my  father’s  intentions? 
that  I adled  as  a constrained,  a passive  in- 
strument of  his  will?  What  signifies  now  the 
opinion  thou  may’st  entertain  of  me?  Thou 
art  lost  j and  I,  miserable  wretch,  stand  here 
only  to  assure  thee  of  it,  only  to  lament  thy 
doom. 

Egmont.  What  strange  voice,  what  unex- 
pedted  consolation  comes  thus  to  cheer  my 
passage  to  the  grave  ? Thou,  the  son  of  my 
first,  of  almost  my  only  enemy,  thou  dost  pity 
me,  thou  art  not  associated  with  my  murder- 
ers ? Speak ! In  what  light  must  I regard 
thee  ? 

Ferdinand.  Cruel  father  ! Yes,  I recog- 
nize thy  nature  in  this  command.  Thou  didst 
know  my  heart,  my  disposition,  which  thou 
hast  so  often  censured  as  the  inheritance  of  a 
tender-hearted  mother.  To  mould  me  into 
thine  own  likeness  thou  hast  sent  me  hither. 
Thou  dost  compel  me  to  behold  this  man  on 
the  verge  of  the  yawning  grave,  in  the  grasp 
of  an  arbitrary  doom,  that  I may  experience 
the  profoundest  anguish ; that  thus,  rendered 
callous  to  every  fate,  I may  henceforth  meet 
every  event  with  a heart  unmoved. 

Egmont.  I am  amazed  ! Be  calm  ! A61, 
speak  like  a man. 

Ferdinand.  Oh,  that  I were  a woman  ! 
That  they  might  say:  What  moves,  what 

agitates  thee?  Tell  me  of  a greater,  a more 
monstrous  crime,  make  me  the  spedlator  of  a 
more  direful  deed  ; I will  thank  thee,  I will 
say,  This  was  nothing. 

Egmont.  Thou  dost  forget  thyself.  Con- 
sider where  thou  art ! 

Ferdinand.  Let  this  passion  rage,  let  me 
give  vent  to  my  anguish  ! I will  not  seem 
composed  when  my  whole  inner  being  is  con- 
vulsed. Thee  must  I behold  here?  Thee? 
It  is  horrible  ! Thou  understandest  me  not ! 
How  should’st  thou  understand  me?  Eg- 
mont ! Egmont ! \^Falling  on  his  neck. 

Egmont.  Explain  this  mystery. 

Ferdinand.  It  is  no  mystery. 

Egmont.  How  can  the  fate  of  a mere 
stranger  thus  deeply  move  thee  ? 

Ferdinand.  Not  a stranger  ! Thou  art  no 
stranger  to  me.  Thy  name  it  was  that,  even 
from  my  boyhood,  shone  before  me  like  a 
star  in  heaven  ! How  often  have  I made  in- 


quiries concerning  thee,  and  listened  to  the 
story  of  thy  deeds ! The  youth  is  the  hope 
of  the  boy,  the  man  of  the  youth.  Thus 
didst  thou  walk  before  me,  ever  before  me ; 
I saw  thee  without  envy,  and  followed  after, 
step  by  step  ; at  length  I hoped  to  see  thee — 
I saw  thee,  and  my  heart  flew  to  thy  embrace. 
I had  destined  thee  for  myself,  and  when  I 
beheld  thee,  I made  choice  of  thee  anew.  I 
hoped  now  to  know  thee,  to  live  with  thee,  to 
be  thy  friend, — thy — ’tis  over  now  and  I see 
thee  here ! 

Egmont.  My  friend,  if  it  can  be  any  com- 
fort to  thee,  be  assured  that  the  very  moment 
we  met  my  heart  was  drawn  towards  thee. 
Now  listen ! Let  us  exchange  a few  quiet 
words.  Tell  me:  is  it  the  stern,  the  settled 
purpose  of  thy  father  to  take  my  life  ? 

Ferdinand.  It  is. 

Egmont.  This  sentence  is  not  a mere  empty 
scarecrow,  designed  to  terrify  me,  to  punish 
me  through  fear  and  intimidation,  to  humiliate 
me,  that  he  may  then  raise  me  again  by  the 
royal  favor  ? 

Ferdinand.  Alas,  no  ! At  first  I flattered 
myself  with  this  delusive  hope ; and  even  then 
my  heart  was  filled  with  grief  and  anguish  to 
behold  thee  thus.  Thy  doom  is  real  ! — is  cer- 
tain ! No,  I cannot  command  myself.  Who 
will  counsel,  who  will  aid  me,  to  meet  the 
inevitable  ? 

Egmont.  Hearken  then  to  me  ! If  thy 
heart  is  impelled  so  powerfully  in  my  favor, 
if  thou  dost  abhor  the  tyranny  that  holds  me 
fettered,  then  deliver  me  ! The  moments  are 
precious.  Thou  art  the  son  of  the  all-power- 
ful, and  thou  hast  power  thyself.  Let  us  fly  ! 
I know  the  roads ; the  means  of  effedling  our 
escape  cannot  be  unknown  to  thee.  These 
walls,  a few  short  miles,  alone  separate  me 
from  my  friends.  Loosen  these  fetters,  con- 
dudl  me  to  them  ; be  ours.  The  King,  on 
some  future  day,  will  doubtless  thank  my  de- 
liverer. Now  he  is  taken  by  surprise,  or  per- 
chance he  is  ignorant  of  the  whole  proceeding. 
Thy  father  ventures  on  this  daring  step,  and 
majesty,  though  horror-struck  at  the  deed, 
must  needs  sandtion  the  irrevocable.  Thou 
dost  deliberate?  Oh,  contrive  for  me  the 
way  to  freedom  ! Speak  : nourish  hope  in  a 
living  soul. 

Ferdinand.  Cease!  Oh,  cease!  Every 
word  deepens  my  despair.  There  is  here  no 
outlet,  no  counsel,  no  escape.  — ’Tis  this 
thought  that  tortures  me,  that  seizes  my  heart, 
and  rends  it  as  with  talons.  I have  myself 


237 


spread  the  net ; I know  its  firm,  inextricable 
knots ; I know  that  every  avenue  is  barred 
alike  to  courage  and  to  stratagem.  I feel  that 
I too,  like  thyself,  like  all  the  rest,  am  fet- 
tered. Think’st  thou  that  I should  give  way 
to  lamentation  if  any  means  of  safety  remained 
untried  ? I have  thrown  myself  at  his  feet, 
remonstrated,  implored.  He  has  sent  me 
hither  in  order  to  blast,  in  this  fatal  moment, 
every  remnant  of  joy  and  happiness  that  yet 
survived  within  my  heart. 

Ecmont.  And  is  there  no  deliverance? 

Fekdin.-^nd.  None ! 

Egmont.  (Stamping  his  foot.)  No  deliver- 
ance ! — Sweet  life  ! Sweet,  pleasant  habitude 
of  existence  and  of  adlivity  ! from  thee  must 
I part ! So  calmly  part  ! Not  in  the  tumult 
of  battle,  amid  the  din  of  arms,  the  excite- 
ment of  the  fray,  dost  thou  send  me  a hasty 
farewell ; thine  is  no  hurried  leave  ; thou  dost 
not  abridge  the  moment  of  separation.  Once 
more  let  me  clasp  thy  hand,  gaze  once  more 
into  thine  eyes,  feel  with  keen  emotion  thy 
beauty  and  thy  worth,  then  resolutely  tear 
myself  away,  and  say — depart ! 

Ferdinand.  Must  I stand  by,  and  look 
]iassively  on,  unable  to  save  thee,  or  to  give 
thee  aid  ! What  voice  avails  for  lamentation  ! 
\\’hat  heart  but  must  break  under  the  pressure 
of  such  anguish  ? 

Egmont.  Be  calm  ! 

Ferdinand.  Tliou  canst  be  calm,  thou 
canst  renounce,  led  on  by  necessity,  thou 
canst  advance  to  the  direful  struggle,  with  the 
courage  of  a hero.  What  can  I do?  What 
ought  I to  do  ? Thou  dost  conquer  thyself 
and  us ; thou  art  the  vidlor  j I survive  both 
myself  and  thee.  I have  lost  my  light  at  the 
banquet,  my  banner  on  the  field.  The  future 
lies  before  me,  dark,  desolate,  perplexed. 

Egmont.  Young  friend,  whom  by  a strange 
fatality,  at  the  same  moment,  I both  win  and 
lose,  who  dost  feel  for  me,  who  dost  suffer  for 
me  the  agonies  of  death, — look  on  me; — thou 
wilt  not  lose  me.  If  my  life  was  a mirror  in 
which  thou  didst  love  to  contemplate  thyself, 
so  be  also  my  death.  Men  are  not  together 
only  when  in  each  other’s  presence ; — the  dis- 
tant, the  departed,  also  live  for  us.  I shall 
live  for  thee,  and  for  myself  I have  lived  long 
enough.  I have  enjoyed  each  day ; each  day, 
I have  performed,  with  prompt  adtivity,  the 
duties  enjoined  by  my  conscience.  Now  my 
life  ends,  as  it  might  have  ended,  long,  long, 
ago,  on  the  sands  of  Gravelines.  I shall  cease 
to  live;  but  I have  lived.  My  friend,  follow 


in  my  steps,  lead  a cheerful  and  a joyous  life, 
and  dread  not  the  approach  of  death. 

Ferdinand,  d'hou  should’st  have  saved 
thyself  for  us,  thou  could’st  have  saved  thy- 
self Thou  art  the  cause  of  thine  own  de- 
strudlion.  Often  have  I listened  when  able 
men  discoursed  concerning  thee;  foes  and 
friends,  they  would  dispute  long  as  to  thy 
worth ; but  on  one  point  they  were  agreed”, 
none  ventured  to  deny,  every  one  confessed, 
that  thou  wert  treading  a dangerous  path. 
How  often  have  I longed  to  warn  thee ! 
Hadst  thou  then  no  friends? 

Egmont.  I was  warned. 

Ferdinand.  And  when  I found  all  these 
allegations,  point  for  point,  in  the  indidtment, 
together  with  thy  answers,  containing  much 
that  might  serve  to  palliate  thy  condudl,  but 
no  evidence  weighty  enough  hilly  to  excul- 
pate thee — 

Egmont.  No  more  of  this.  Man  imagines 
that  he  diredts  his  life,  that  he  governs  his 
adtions,  when  in  fadt  his  existence  is  irresist- 
ibly controlled  by  his  destiny.  Let  us  not 
dwell  ujion  this  subjedl  ; these  refledlions  I 
can  dismiss  with  ease — not  so  my  apprehen- 
sions for  these  provinces;  yet  they  too  will  be 
cared  for.  Could  my  blood  flow  for  many, 
bring  jieace  to  my  people,  how  freely  should 
it  flow!  Alas!  This  may  not  be.  Yet  it  ill 
becomes  a man  idly  to  speculate,  when  the 
power  to  adt  is  no  longer  his.  If  thou  canst 
restrain  or  guide  the  fatal  power  of  thy  father; 
do  so.  Alas,  who  can  ? — Farewell ! 

Ferdinand.  I cannot  leave  thee. 

Egmont.  Let  me  urgently  recommend  my 
followers  to  thy  care  ! I have  worthy  men  in 
my  service ; let  them  not  be  dispersed,  let 
them  not  become  destitute ! How  fares  it 
with  Richard,  my  secretary? 

Ferdinand.  He  is  gone  before  thee.  They 
have  beheaded  him,  as  thy  accomplice  in  high 
treason. 

Egmont.  Poor  soul ! — Yet  one  word,  and 
then  farewell,  I can  no  more.  However 
powerfully  the  spirit  may  be  stirred,  nature  at 
length  irresistibly  asserts  her  rights ; and  like 
a child,  who,  enveloped  in  a serpent’s  folds, 
enjoys  refreshing  slumber,  so  the  weary  one 
lays  himself  down  to  rest  before  the  gates  of 
death,  and  sleeps  soundly,  as  though  a toil- 
some journey  yet  lay  before  him. — One  word 
more, — I know  a maiden ; thou  wilt  not  de- 
spise her  because  she  was  mine.  Since  I can 
recommend  her  to  thy  care,  I shall  die  in 
peace.  Thy  soul  is  noble ; in  such  a man,  a 


238 


woman  is  sure  to  find  a protedlor.  Lives  my 
old  Adolphus?  Is  he  free? 

Ferdinand.  The  adlive  old  man,  who 
always  attended  thee  on  horseback? 

Egmont.  The  same. 

Ferdinand.  He  lives,  he  is  free. 

Egmont.  He  knows  her  dwelling ; let  him 
guide  thy  steps  thither,  and  reward  him  to  his 
dying  day,  for  having  shown  thee  the  way  to 
this  jewel. — Farewell ! 

Ferdinand.  I cannot  leave  thee. 

Egmont.  ( Urging  him  towards  the  door.) 
Farewell  ! 

Ferdinand.  Oh,  let  me  linger  yet  a 
moment ! 

Egmont.  No  leave-taking,  my  friend. 

IHe  accompanies  Ferdinand  to  the  door, 
and  then  tears  himself  away  ; Ferdinand, 
overwhelmed  with  grief,  hastily  retires. 

Egmont  (alone). 

Egmont.  Cruel  man  ! Thou  didst  not 
think  to  render  me  this  service  through  thy 
son.  He  has  been  the  means  of  relieving  my 
mind  from  the  pressure  of  care  and  sorrow, 
from  fear  and  every  anxious  feeling.  Gently, 
yet  urgently,  nature  claims  her  final  tribute. 
’Tis  past! — ’Tis  resolved  I And  the  reflec- 
tions which,  in  the  suspense  of  last  night, 
kept  me  wakeful  on  my  couch,  now  with 
resistless  certainty  lull  my  senses  to  repose. 

\^He  seats  himself  tipon  the  couch  ; music. 

Sweet  sleep ! Like  the  purest  happiness, 
thou  comest  most  willingly,  uninvited,  un- 
sought. Thou  dost  loosen  the  knots  of  earn- 
est thoughts,  dost  mingle  all  images  of  joy 
and  of  sorrow,  unimpeded  the  circle  of  inner 
harmony  flows  on,  and  wrapped  in  fond  de- 
lusion, we  sink  into  oblivion,  and  cease 
to  be. 

{^He  sleeps ; music  accompanies  his  slumber. 
Behind  his  couch  the  wall  appears  to  open 
and  discovers  a brilliaiit  appa?ition.  Free- 
dom, in  a celestial  garb,  surrounded  by  a 
glory,  reposes  on  a cloud.  Her  features 
are  those  of  Clara  a?id  she  inclines  to- 
wards  the  sleeping  hero.  Her  countenance 
betokens  compassion,  she  seems  to  lament 
his  fate.  Quickly  she  recovers  herself  and 
with  an  encouraging  gesture  exhibits  the 
symbols  of  freedom,  the  bundle  of  arrows, 
with  the  staff  and  cap.  She  encourages 
him  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  while  she 
signifies  to  him  that  his  death  will  secure 


the  freedom  of  the  provinces,  she  hails  him 
as  a conqueror,  and  extends  to  him  a 
laurel  crotvn.  As  the  wreath  approaches 
his  head  Egmont  moves  like  one  asleep, 
and  reclines  with  his  face  towards  her. 
She  holds  the  wreath  suspended  over  his 
head ; — martial  music  is  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance, at  the  first  sound  the  vision  disap- 
pears. The  music  grows  louder  and 

louder.  Egmont  awakes.  The  prison 

is  dinilv  illuminated  by  the  dawn. — His 
first  impulse  is  to  lift  his  hand  to  his  head; 
he  stands  up,  and  gazes  round,  his  hand 
still  upraised. 

The  crown  is  vanished  ! Beautiful  vision, 
the  light  of  day  has  frighted  thee!  Yes, 
they  revealed  themselves  to  my  sight  uniting 
in  one  radiant  form  the  two  sweetest  joys  of 
my  heart.  Divine  Liberty  borrowed  the  mien 
of  my  beloved  one ; the  lovely  maiden  ar- 
rayed herself  in  the  celestial  garb  of  my  friend. 
In  a solemn  moment  they  appeared  united, 
with  aspedt  more  earnest  than  tender.  With 
blood-stained  feet  the  vision  approached,  the 
waving  folds  of  her  robe  also  were  tinged 
with  blood.  It  was  my  blood,  and  the  blood 
of  many  brave  hearts.  No  ! It  shall  not  be 
shed  in  vain  ! Forward  ! Brave  people  ! 
The  goddess  of  liberty  leads  you  on  ! And 
as  the  sea  breaks  through  and  destroys  the 
barriers  that  would  oppose  its  fury,  so  do  ye 
overwhelm  the  bulwark  of  tyranny,  and  with 
your  impetuous  flood  sweep  it  away  from  the 
land  which  it  usurps.  '(Drums. 

Hark ! hark ! How  often  has  this  sound 
summoned  my  joyous  steps  to  the  field  of 
battle  and  of  vidlory  ! How  bravely  did  I 
tread,  with  my  gallant  comrades,  the  danger- 
ous path  of  fame  ! And  now,  from  this  dun- 
geon I shall  go  forth,  to  meet  a glorious 
death  ; I die  for  freedom,  for  whose  cause  I 
have  lived  and  fought,  and  for  whom  I now 
offer  myself  up  a sorrowing  sacrifice. 

[ The  background  is  occupied  by  Spanish  sol- 
diers with  halberds. 

Yes,  lead  them  on  ! Close  your  ranks;  ye 
terrify  me  not.  I am  accustomed  to  stand 
amid  the  serried  ranks  of  war,  and  environed 
by  the  threatening  forms  of  death,  to  feel, 
with  double  zest,  the  energy  of  life. 

(Drums. 

The  foe  closes  round  on  every  side  ! Swords 
are  flashing  ! Courage,  friends  ! Behind  are 
your  parents,  your  wives,  your  children  ! 

(Pointing  to  the  guard. 


239 


And  these  are  impelled  by  the  word  of  their 
leader,  not  by  their  own  free  will.  Protect 
your  homes  ! And  to  save  those  who  are  most 
dear  to  you,  be  ready  to  follow  my  example, 
and  to  fall  with  joy. 


\^Dnans.  As  he  advances  through  the  guards 
towards  the  door  in-  the  background,  the 
curtain  falls.  The  music  joins  in,  and 
the  scene  closes  with  a symphony  of  vic- 
tory. 


a 


EUGENIE, 


THF, 


NATURAL 

DAUGHTER 


A l'RAGl:DY 


j 

m~ 

DRAMATIS 

PERSONS. 

King. 

Secular  Priest. 

Duke. 

Counsellor. 

Count. 

Governor.  ; 

Eugenie. 

Abbess.  ' 

Governess. 

Monk.  * 

( 

Secretary. 

1 

ACT  I. 


SCENE  1.— Thick  Wood. 

King.  Duke. 

King.  Our  fleeting  goal  attradling  dogs 
and  man 

To  follow  swift  along  the  winding  course — 
The  noble  stag  has  led  us  far  astray 
O’er  vales  and  mountains,  till  I needs  must  own 
That  I myself,  although  so  country-wise. 

Am  quite  at  loss.  Where  are  we,  uncle  ? Duke, 
Pray  tell  me  what  these  hills  are  that  we  cross’d ! 
Duke.  The  brook  that  babbles  past  us.  Sire, 
arises 

Upon  thy  servant’s  near  domain,  for  which 
He  has  to  thank  the  generous  grace  bestow’d 
By  thee  and  by  thy  royal  ancestors 
Upon  him,  as  first  vassal  of  the  realm. 

Beyond  the  rocks  of  yonder  eminence 
A pleasant  house  stands  hid  by  veils  of  green. 
Not  built  at  all  for  housing  royalty. 

But  ready  to  receive  thee,  if  thou  wilt. 

King.  Nay ! let  the  lofty  arches  of  these 
trees 

Give  shelter  for  the  moment  that  we  rest. 

And  let  the  gentle  stirring  of  the  breeze 
Weave  round  us,  while  the  joy  of  peaceful 
scenes 

Succeeds  the  joy  of  dashing  o’er  the  course. 


Duke.  The  pleasure  that  thou  feelest  here, 
O King, 

Behind  this  lovely  screen  of  Nature’s  work. 

In  absolute  seclusion,  I also  feel. 

Here  comes  not  nigh  the  voice  of  discontent, 
Nor  yet  the  hand  of  shameless  violence. 

Here  in  the  freedom  born  of  loneliness 
Thou  seest  not  the  ungrateful  slink  away. 

The  restless  world,  which  ever  makes  demand 
And  never  lends  its  aid,  is  vanish’d  now. 
King.  If  I shall  e’er  forget  what  once  op- 
press’d me 

Then  let  no  word  recall  me  to  its  trials. 

Ye  echoes  of  the  distant  world’s  commotion. 
Little  by  little  vanish  from  my  ears  ! 

Yea,  prithee,  uncle,  suit  thy  fair  discourse 
To  circumstances  fitter  for  this  spot. 

Here  wife  and  husband,  hand-in-hand,  should 
roam. 

Rejoicing  in  the  sight  of  comely  children. 
The  highest  reacli  of  joy ; here  friend  with  friend 
Draw  nigh,  disclosing  every  secret  pleasure. 
And  didst  not  thou  erewhile  drop  gentle  hints 
That  when  a quiet  moment  could  be  ours 
Thou  hadst  some  weighty  secret  to  confess. 
Some  contemplated  favor  to  demand. 

Which,  granted,  would  rejoice  your  faithful 
heart  ? 


243 


Duke.  O Sire,  no  greater  kindness 

could’st  thou  show  me 
Than  setting  free  the  fountain  of  my  speech. 
And  wliat  I fain  would  tell  who  else  could  hear 
More  fitly  than  my  King,  among  whose  treasures 
None  shine  with  such  a lustre  as  his  children, — 
Who,  I am  sure,  will  give  his  sympathy 
In  all  the  father’s  joy  his  servant  feels? 

King.  Of  father’s  joy  thou  speakest ! 

Know’st  thou  then 

Its  heavenly  rapture  ? Has  thy  only  son 
Not  torn  thy  loving  heart  by  lawless  adlions. 
By  disobedience,  by  unfilial  scorn. 

Until  thy  sadden’d  life  reach’d  bitter  age? 
Has  he  then  lately  chang’d  his  evil  ways? 
Duke.  From  him  I have  no  hope  of  hap- 
pier days. 

His  idle  mind  gives  birth  to  clouds  alone 
Which  ever  gloom  the  horizon  of  my  life. 

A different  star  it  is  that  sheds  its  light 
Upon  me.  As  in  cheerless  caverns  shine. 
Mysterious  with  their  wonder-working  rays. 
Bright  precious  stones  (so  fairy  legends  say). 
And  gleam  across  the  murky  night  which  reigns, 
So  in  my  gloomy  life  a magic  gift 
Was  granted,  blessing  me  beyond  all  words — 
A gift  I cherish  more  than  lands  and  gold 
Inherited  or  won  by  deeds  of  war, 

Yea,  more  than  sight,  more  than  the  light  of 
life. 

And  guard  with  joy  and  fear,  with  pain  and 
pleasure. 

King.  Speak  not  so  darkly  of  the  mystery 
dark. 

Duke.  ’Twould  not  be  easy  to  confess  our 
faults 

In  ears  of  royalty,  were  royalty 
Alone  not  able  to  convert  their  harm 
To  fair  results  of  right  and  good  report. 

King.  The  treasure  guarded  with  such 
watchful  love? 

Duke.  That  treasure  is  a daughter. 

King.  What  ! a daughter  ? 

And  like  the  gods  in  fable,  uncle,  stole 
In  secret  hither  to  earth’s  lower  circles 
To  take  delight  in  earthly  love  and  bliss? 
Duke.  Small  things  as  well  as  great  com- 
pell’d  us.  Sire, 

To  hide  our  adtions  from  the  world’s  dispraise. 
The  lady,  bound  to  me  by  wondrous  Fate 
In  secret  union,  stood  so  high  in  rank  ; — 

And  even  now  thy  court  wears  mourning  garb 
And  secret  sorrow  gnaws  my  heart  for  her. 

King.  The  Princess?  She  who  lately  died 
So  honor’d  and  so  mourn’d? 

Duke.  She  was  the  mother. 


But  let  me  speak  of  her  alone — my  child. 
Who,  living  better  than  her  parents  liv’d, 
Rejoices  in  the  noble  joys  of  life — 

And  all  the  rest  leave  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  her  the  gifted,  lofty-minded  woman. 

Her  death  at  last  unseals  my  lips.  I dare 
Before  my  King  to  name  my  daughter  now — 

I dare  demand  of  him  to  lift  her  up 
Upon  a level  with  me  and  her  peers. 

To  recognize  her  right  to  princely  birth 
Before  his  court,  his  kingdom  and  the  world. 
So  sure  am  I of  favor  in  his  heart ! 

King.  If  all  the  virtues  of  her  noble  parents 
Are  found  united  in  this  niece  whom  thou 
Preparest  to  present  me  ready  grown. 

Then  must  the  court,  then  must  our  royal  house. 
From  which  a brilliant  star  set  all  too  soon. 
Give  welcome  to  the  new  star  rising  fair. 
Duke.  Oh,  learn  to  know  her  ere  thou 
judgest  her 

Whth  prejudice.  Let  not  a father’s  pride 
Pervert  thee.  Much  has  Nature  done  for  her 
Which  I with  rarest  pleasure  contemplate. 

And  all  the  culture  which  our  rank  demands 
Has,  since  her  babyhood;  been  warmly  foster’d. 
Her  stej)s  were  guided  from  her  earliest  days 
By  a skilful  governess,  a wise  professor. 

With  what  light-heartedness  and  pleasant  wit 
She  makes  the  present  serve  her  ready  mind. 
While  poet  Fancy  paints  with  flattering  hues 
The  fortune  which  she  waits  with  eager  jo)' ! 
Her  gentle  heart  clings  to  her  loving  father. 
Although  her  spirit  willingly  gives  heed 
To  wise  discourse  of  noble-thinking  men. 
Leading  her  slowly  up  the  hill  of  learning. 
And  all  the  exercise  of  princely  virtues 
Is  manifest  in  her  fair  graceful  form. 

Sire  ! thou  thyself  hast  .seen  her  unbeknown, 
AVhile  round  thee  whirl’d  the  tumult  of  the 
chase. 

To-day  a daughter  of  the  Amazons 
She  first  upon  the  traces  of  the  stag 
Dash’d  gallantly  across  the  swelling  stream. 
King.  We  trembled  when  we  saw  the  noble 
maid. 

I am  rejoic’d  to  know  she  is  my  kin. 

Duke.  And  not  to-day  alone  I learn’d  to 
know 

How  pride  and  apprehension,  joy  and  trouble 
Commingle  in  a fether’s  yearning  breast. 
King.  With  mighty  force  and  panting 
strove  the  steed 

To  land  his  rider  on  the  farther  shore. 

Where  thick-grown  bushes  hide  the  dusky  hill, 
.-Vnd  thus  she  vanish’d  from  my  sight. 

Duke.  Once  more 


244 


My  eyes  beheld  her  ere  the  labyrinth 
Of  bosky  forest  led  us  thus  astray. 

Who  knows  what  distant  field  she  now  explores 
With  heart  on  fire  because  she  miss’d  the  goal, 
Where  now  alone  it  is  permitted  her 
To  approach  the  presence  of  her  King  revered, 
And  humbly  wait  until  with  royal  favor 
She  is  acknowledg’d  as  his  kith  and  kin — 

The  latest  blossom  of  his  ancient  line. 

King.  But  what  is  yonder  tumult  that  I 
see  ? 

What  means  the  running  towards  the  precipice? 


SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

Count. 

King.  Why  are  the  people  gathering  with 
such  haste  ? 

Count.  The  eager  huntress  whom  we  all 
admir’d 

Has  fallen  headlong  from  yon  rocky  height. 

Duke.  My  God  ! 

King.  And  are  her  wounds  severe? 

Count.  In  haste 

They  sent  away  to  call  thy  surgeon.  Sire. 

Duke.  Why  do  I linger?  If  she’s  dead, 
then  naught 

Remains  for  me  to  live  for  in  the  world. 


SCENE  III. 

King.  Count. 

King.  What  was  it  caus’d  the  accident. 
Sir  Count  ? 

Count.  It  happen’d  right  before  my  very 
eyes : 

A band  of  many  riders  found  themselves 
By  fortune  separated  from  the  hunt. 

And,  led  by  that  fair  lady,  prick’d  their  way 
Upon  the  wood-crown’d  summit  of  yon  height. 
They  hear,  they  see  below  them  in  the  valley 
That  all  is  over,  see  the  noble  stag 
Succumb  before  the  pack  of  yelping  hounds. 
And  quickly  then  the  company  disbands. 

Each  seeking  by  the  path  where  each  may 
best, — 

One  here,  one  there, — a prosperous  exit  down. 
But  she  alone  no  instant  hesitates. 


But  spurs  her  steed  from  crag  to  crag  sheer 
down ; 

We  marvel  at  the  luck  of  recklessness. 

Bravely  it  goes  with  her  awhile ; at  last 
When  she  has  reach’d  the  ultimate  descent, 

A steep  bold  cliff,  the  horse  mistakes  his  steps 
So  insecure,  and  down  he  goes  with  her. 

Thus  much  I saw  and  then  the  hurrying  throng 
Hid  her  from  sight.  I heard  them  call  the 
surgeon ; 

And  so  I now  am  here  to  tell  thee.  Sire. 

King.  Oh,  that  she  may  be  spar’d  him  ! 
Dangerous 

Is  that  man  who  has  nothing  more  to  lose. 

Count.  Has  then  this  sudden  fright  com- 
pell’d  the  secret, 

Which,  until  now,  he  strove  so  hard  to  hide? 

King.  His  confidence  was  freely  given  ere 
now. 

Count.  The  Princess’s  death  remov’d  the 
seal  of  silence 

From  lips  which  tell  a history  long  disclos’d — 
I An  open  secret  unto  court  and  city. 

It  is  a curious  and  absurd  conceit 
That  we  through  silence  can  annihilate 
For  others  or  ourselves  the  deeds  we  do. 

King.  Oh,  leave  to  man  this  noble  touch 
of  pride ! 

He  can,  he  must  do  many,  many  things 
Which  are  not  suitable  to  put  in  words. 

Count.  They  bring  her  hither,  lifeless  I’m 
afraid. 

King.  Oh,  what  an  unexpedled,  sad  event ! 


SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 

Eugenie  laid  appa7-ently  dead  on  woven 
boughs  of  pine. 

Duke.  Surgeon.  Attendants. 

Duke.  ( 7b  the  Surgeon,  j Oh,  if  thy  art 
and  skill  have  any  power. 

Experienc’d  sir,  to  whom  our  monarch’s  life, 
A priceless  treasure,  is  entrusted,  let 
Her  bright  eyes  once  more  open  to  the  day, 
That  hope  may  shine  upon  me  in  her  glance. 
That  from  the  depths  of  grief  I may  be  sav’d. 
If  only  for  a fleeting  moment  now. 

And  then  if  nothing  more,  if  thou  canst  keep 
her 

Only  a fleeting  moment  for  me,  then. 

Oh,  let  me  haste  and  pass  away  before  her, 


245 


That  in  the  very  article  of  death 
I still  may  say,  consol’d,  “ My  daughter  lives.” 

King.  Pray,  leave  us,  uncle  ! Let  me  un- 
dertake 

The  faithful  service  of  a father’s  love. 

This  worthy  man  will  nothing  leave  undone; 

.•\s  though  myself  lay  wounded  sore,  he  will — 
Doubt  not — exert  his  skill  upon  thy  daughter. 

Duke.  She  moves  ! 

King.  Art  thou  assur’d  of  it? 

Duke.  She  moves! 

Her  eyes  are  open  wide  ; she  glances  round  ! 
She  lives!  She  lives! 

King.  (Stepping  back  a little.)  Redouble 
your  exertions  ! 

Duke.  She  lives  ! She  lives  ! Again  the 
light  of  day 

Her  eyes  behold.  Yes!  soon  she’ll  recognize 
Her  loving  father  and  her  friends  once  more ! 
My  darling  child,  gaze  not  so  wild  around  | 
As  though  uncertain  : towards  me  turn  thy  face,  * 
Oh,  turn  thy  face  upon  thy  father  first. 

Dost  thou  not  know  me?  Let  thy  father’s  voice 
Be  first  to  reach  thy  ear,  as  thou  returnest 
From  gloomy  shades  of  everlasting  night ! 

Eugenie.  ( U7io  little  by  little  has  returned 
to  consciousness  and  sits  up. ) Where  am 
I?  What  has  happen’d  to  me? 

Di:ke.  P'irst, 

Oh,  speak  to  me  ! Dost  thou  not  know  me? 

PluGENiE.  Father! 

Duke.  Yes,  ’tis  thy  father  whom  with  these 
sweet  tones 

'I’hou  savest  from  the  arms  of  grim  despair ! 

Eugenie.  Who  brought  me  here  among 
these  trees? 

Duke.  ( To  whom  the  surgeon  has  handed  a 
white  handkerchief. ) Be  calm. 

My  daughter ! Take  this  strengthening  draught. 
Take  it  with  confidence,  with  quiet  soul. 

Eugenie.  ( Takes  the  handkerchief  from  her 
father  as  he  holds  it  in  his  hands,  and  bu/'ics 
her  face  in  it ; then  suddenly  gets  to  her 
feet,  taking  the  handkerchief  from  her  face.) 
There  ! Em  myself  again  ! Now  I remember! 
On  yonder  height  I rein’d  my  horse  and  dar’d 
Ride  down,  sheer  down  the  rocky  side.  For- 
give me — 

I stumbled,  did  I not?  Canst  thou  forgive 
me  ? 

They  took  me  up  for  dead?  My  darling 
father  ! 

And  canst  thou  ever  love  thy  child  again. 

Who  caus’d  such  bitter  anguish  to  thy  heart? 

Duke.  I thought  I knew  how  precious  was 
the  treasure 


God  granted  when  he  gave  me  thee,  my 
daughter  ! 

But  now  the  loss  I fear’d  has  caused  my  gain 

To  rise  to  estimation  infinite. 

King.  ( Who  till  now  has  remained  in  the 
background  conversing  until  the  Surgeon 
and  the  Count — to  the  others.) 

Let  all  withdraw  ! I wish  to  speak  with  them. 


SCENE  V. 

King.  Duke.  Eugenie. 

King.  (Approaching.)  And  is  the  gallant 
huntress  quite  recover’d? 

Has  she  escap’d  unharm’d? 

Duke.  Yes  ! quite,  my  King  ! 

And  all  the  sad  remains  of  fright  and  woe. 
Thou,  Sire,  dispellest  by  thy  gentle  glance. 
And  by  the  magic  of  thy  tender  tones. 

King.  Pray  tell  me  who  the  lovely 
maiden  is. 

Duke.  (After  a pause.)  Since  thou  art 
pleas’d  to  ask,  I will  confess — 

Since  thou  demandest,  I will  solve  my  pledge. 
And  introduce  my  daughter. 

King.  What!  thy  daughter? 

Then,  uncle.  Fortune  has  been  kinder  to  thee. 
Yea,  infinitely  kinder  than  the  law. 

Eugenie.  Am  I indeed  brought  back  to 
life  again  ? 

Has  that  strange  deathlike  faintness  pass’d 
away? 

And  is  this  scene  no  fidtion  of  a dream? 

My  father  in  the  presence  of  his  King 
Declares  his  daughter  ! Nay  ! I do  not  dream. 
The  uncle  of  a monarch  recognizes 
That  Em  his  child.  So  then  am  I the  niece — 
The  niece  of  the  great  King ! Oh,  pardon 
me. 

Your  Majesty,  if  brought  so  suddenly 
From  out  the  mystery  of  my  dark  retreat. 
Expos’d  to  all  the  blinding  light  of  day, 

I totter,  and  cannot  control  myself. 

\^She  throws  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  King. 
King.  May  reverence  mark  thy  life  from 
youth  to  age. 

The  reverence  symboliz’d  before  me  now  ! 
And  sweet  humility  w'hose  narrow  duties 
Thou,  fully  conscious  of  thy  lofty  birth. 

Hast  practis’d  many  a year  far  from  the  world. 
\_He  raises  her  and  presses  her  gently  to  his 
heart. 


246 


li 


,1 


ARTIST  : OTTO  SEITZ 

THP:  natural  daughter,  act  I,  scene  IV. 


EUGENIA  RECOGNIZES  HER  FATHER, 


And  now  if  from  before  my  feet  I lift  thee 
And  take  thee  to  my  heart,  if  on  thy  brow 
I print  the  fond  kiss  of  paternal  love, 

Let  this  be  also  as  a seal,  a symbol ; 

Thee  my  relation  do  I recognize; 

And  soon  what  I have  done  in  secret  here. 
Before  my  courtiers’  eyes  will  I repeat. 

Duke.  Such  splendid  grace  demands  a 
life  of  thanks. 

Of  undivided  boundless  loyalty. 

Eugenie.  From  noble  teachers  many  things 
I’ve  learn’d. 

And  much  instrudlion  from  my  heart  have 
gain’d. 

Yet  when  it  comes  to  speaking  to  my  King 
I find  the  preparation  sadly  lacking. 

Yet  if  I cannot  speak  as  I would  wish. 
Expressing  all  my  duty,  still  thy  presence 
Forbids  me  awkwardly  to  stand  in  silence. 
What  could  I give  thee?  What  return  devise? 
The  abundance  ever  flowing  to  tliy  hands. 

For  good  of  others  streams  away  again. 

Here  thousands  stand  to  give  their  lives  for 
thine. 

Here  thousands  work  obedient  to  thy  orders. 
And  if  a single  subjedl  freely  offers 
His  heart  and  soul,  his  arm  and  life  for  thee. 
Among  such  numbers  he  is  lost  from  sight. 
Forgot  by  thee  and  by  himself  forgot. 

King.  If  linto  thee  the  masses  seem  o’er- 
whelming. 

Thou  lovely  child,  it  is  not  strange  indeed. 
They  are  o’erwhelming,  yet  the  noble  few. 

By  Nature  made  to  stand  above  the  masses 
Through  skill  and  culture  and  the  power  to  rule. 
Are  more  imposing.  If  the  King  thereto 
Was  call’d  by  birth,  then  are  his  next  of  kin 
Born  counsellors,  who,  closely  knit  to  him. 
Are  bound  to  guard  the  realm  and  foster  it. 
Oh,  never  let  dissension  mask’d  come  in. 

With  dark  insidious  working,  to  these  regions 
Where  stand  this  band  of  patriotic  watchmen. 
To  thee,  my  noble  cousin,  I give  a father 
By  virtue  of  our  royal  power  supreme. 

Preserve  him  to  me,  use  thy  winsome  ways 
To  keep  my  kinsman’s  heart  and  voice  in  faith, 
For  many  enemies  oppose  a prince; 

Oh,  let  him  stand  aloof  from  treacherous  paths. 
Duke.  Why  dost  thou  pain  my  heart  with 
such  reproaches  ? 

Eugenie.  Incomprehensible  are  these  thy 
words  1 

King.  May  fortune  keep  thee  long  from 
comprehending  ! 

The  portals  of  our  royal  house  I open. 

Inviting  thee  to  enter.  By  the  hand 


I lead  thee  in  o’er  slippery  marble  pavements. 
Thou  art  amaz’d  ; thyself  and  all  thou  seest 
Are  strange  to  thee.  'I'hou  thinkest  here  within 
To  find  sure  worth  and  perfedl  peace  united — 
j Thou  art  deceiv’d  ! Thou  comest  at  a time 
Not  mark’d  by  joyous  bright  festivities. 

E’en  though  the  King  invite  thee  to  partake 
In  welcoming  the  day  that  gave  him  birth. 

Yet  shall  the  day  for  thy  sake  have  its  joy; 
There  shall  I see  thee  in  the  merry  throng. 
The  cynosure  of  every  wondering  eye. 
j Right  royally  has  Nature  fashion’d  thee; 
i And  that  thy  jewels  meet  thy  princely  rank 
Thy  father  and  thy  monarch  will  provide. 
Eugenie.  How  could  the  sudden  cry  of 
pleas’d  surprise. 

The  eager  gesture’s  quick  significance. 

Express  the  language  of  the  beating  heart. 
Rejoic’d  by  such  high  generosity? 

Sire,  let  me  kneel  in  silence  at  thy  feet ! 

\_She  offers  to  kneel. 
King.  Thou  must  not  kneel ! 

Eugenie.  Oh,  let  me  here  enjoy 

The  pleasant  fortune  of  complete  submission  ! 
If  we  in  tense  and  sudden  moments  stand 
Eredt  upon  our  feet  and  boldly  wage 
To  bear  the  earnest  of  our  own  support, 

We  seem  the  owners  of  the  earth  and  heaven. 
Yet  what  in  moments  of  keen  ravishment 
Causes  the  knee  to  bend  is  also  joy. 

And  all  of  sweet  thanksgiving,  loveunmeastir’d, 
Which  we  might  bring  as  purest  offering 
To  father,  monarch,  God,  is  best  express’d 
In  such  an  humble  attitude  as  this. 

\_Again  kneeling  before  the  King. 
Duke.  Renew’d  allegiance  would  I offer 
thee  ! 

Eugenie.  As  ever-faithful  vassals  look 
upon  us ! 

King.  Up ! then  ! arise  and  take  thy  place 
beside  me. 

Within  the  circle  of  those  trusty  few 
Sworn  to  defend  the  right  and  reasonable  ! 

Oh,  fearful  are  the  portents  of  these  days. 

The  dregs  boil  up,  the  high-born  sink  below 
! As  though  each  in  the  other’s  place  might  find 
Fulfilment  of  his  unrestrain’d  desires. 

As  though  enjoyment  only  were  in  store 
When  class  distindlions  were  all  wash’d  away. 
And  when  we  all  commingl’d  in  one  stream 
Were  hurl’d  unnotic’d  to  the  boundless  ocean. 
Oh,  let  us  fight  against  it,  let  us  boldly 
With  new-united  double  might  hold  fast 
To  what  may  hold  us  and  the  people  fast. 

And  lastly  let  us  heal  the  ancient  strife 
That  stirs  the  great  against  the  great,  within 


247 


The  ship  of  State  makes  weak  the  walls  pro- 
tedting 

The  battling  crew  against  the  angry  waves 
without. 

Eugenie.  What  clear  beneficent  rays  en- 
lighten me 

And  stir  to  deeds  instead  of  blinding  me  ! 

What ! does  our  King  so  highly  honor  us 

That  he  confesses  that  he  needs  our  aid  ? 


Duke.  The  child’s  assurance,  Highness, 
thou  wilt  honor, 

And  thou  wilt  pardon  for  its  kind  intent. 

And  if  her  father,  taught  by  many  years. 
Appreciates  and  treasures  the  full  worth 
Of  this  day’s  gift  and  of  the  future  promise, 
Then  art  thou  sure  of  his  recognizance. 

King.  ’Twill  not  be  long  before  we  meet 
again. 


We  are  not  only  kinsfolk  to  him,  we 
Are  rais’d  to  loftiest  station  by  his  trust. 

And  if  the  nobles  of  his  kingdom  press 
Around  him  to  protedl  his  royal  breast. 

Of  us  he  asks  a nobler  service  yet. 

The  highest  duty  of  the  well  dispos’d 
Is  ever  to  uphold  the  monarch’s  heart. 

For  if  he  flinch,  then  flinches  all  the  State, 
And  if  he  fall,  then  all  things  fall  with  him. 
Youth,  people  say,  has  too  much  confidence 
In  its  own  strength,  and  in  its  will  to  do. 

Yet  all  this  will,  this  strength,  and  their  en- 
deavor 

Is  dedicate  to  thee,  O King,  forever. 


Upon  my  birthday  when  my  faithful  friends 

Unite  to  celebrate  the  festal  season. 

That  day,  O noble  maid,  I will  present  thee 

Before  the  wondering  world,  the  court,  thy 
father. 

Myself.  The  glory  of  the  throne  will  shield 
thee. 

But  till  that  hour  let  both  of  you  keep 
counsel, 

I.et  no  one  know  the  history  of  this  day. 

Distnistful  jealousy  is  lurking  round. 

Wave  follows  wave ; storm  treads  the  heel  of 
storm. 

Our  journey  trends  along  the  jagged  shore 


248 


Where  e’en  the  helmsman  scarcely  knows  the 
course. 

Close  secrecy  alone  secures  our  a<5ls. 

A plan  disclos’d  has  pass’d  beyond  thy  power. 
This  very  moment  chance  makes  sport  of  will. 
E’en  he  who  can  command  must  work  in 
secret. 

Yea  ! with  the  best  will  in  the  world  we  fail 
Accomplishment,  a thousand  crossing  ours. 
Oh,  if  my  honest  wishes  had  the  aid 
Of  perfect  power  for  but  a little  time. 

The  meanest  hearthstone  in  my  kingdom’s 
bounds 

Should  feel  a father’s  warm  solicitude. 

Content  should  dwell  beneath  the  humblest 
roof. 

Content  should  dwell  in  ev’ry  stately  palace. 
And  when  I once  had  tasted  this  delight. 

I’d  gladly  yield  my  crown,  renounce  the  world. 


SCENE  VI. 

Duke.  Eugenie. 

Eugenie.  Oh,  what  a day  of  jubilant  sur- 
prises ! 

Duke.  Oh,  might  I live  from  day  to  day 
like  this ! 

Eugenie.  What  wealth  of  fortune  has  the 
King  bestow’d  ! 

Duke.  Take  pure  delight  in  his  unlook’d- 
for  favor. 

Eugenie.  He  seems  unhappy,  and  he  is  so 
good. 

Duke.  Goodness  itself  oft  rouses  oppo- 
sition. 

Eugenie.  Who  is  so  hateful  as  to  set  against 
him  ? 

Duke.  The  advantage  of  the  whole  needs 
strenuous  vigor. 

Eugenie.  The  mildness  of  the  King  should 
breed  like  mildness. 

Duke.  The  mildness  of  the  King  breeds 
insolence. 

Eugenie.  With  what  nobility  has  Nature 
form’d  him  ! 

Duke.  Yet  far  too  high  in  station  has  she 
plac’d  him. 

Eugenie.  With  what  consummate  virtues 
rich  endow’d  ! 

Duke.  Domestic  virtues  not  the  gift  of 
ruling. 


Eugenie.  The  blossom  of  an  ancient  stock 
of  heroes  ! 

Duke.  Perchance  the  vigor  fails  in  later 
scions. 

Eugenie.  It  is  our  duty  to  defend  all 
weakness. 

Duke.  Unless  our  greater  strength  he  should 
suspedf . 

Eugenie.  (Aside.)  His  subtile  reasoning 
fills  me  with  suspicion. 

Duke.  What  are  thy  thoughts?  Hide  not 
thy  heart  from  me  ! 

Eugenie.  ( After  a pause.)  Thou  art  then 
one  of  those  whom  he  distrusts. 

Duke.  Let  him  distrust  those  worthy  of 
distrust. 

Eugenie.  Shall  we  see  secret  foes  invest  his 
throne  ? 

Duke.  He  who  conceals  a danger  is  a foe. 
But  whither  do  our  counsels  lead  us,  daughter? 
How  has  the  most  extraordinary  fortune 
Brought  us,  short  cut,  upon  the  goal  desir’d. 

I build  without  foundation,  filling  thy  mind 
With  wild  confusion  when  I should  enlighten. 
Yet  must  thy  rapturous  joy  of  childhood  van- 
ish 

When  once  thou  steppest  foot  within  the 
world. 

Not  long  the  intoxicating  sweets  of  peace 
Could’st  thou  delight  in  mid  its  blinding 
scenes. 

The  goal  is  thine,  but  its  false  crown  has  torn 
Thy  tender  hand  with  cruel  hidden  spines. 
Beloved  child,  I would  it  were  not  so  ! 

Far  better  were  it,  as  I fondly  hop’d. 

To  wont  thee  by  degrees  to  all  its  trials. 

To  teach  thee  by  degrees  the  bitter  lesson 
That  dearest  hopes  must  fade,  fond  wishes 
fail. 

But  now  a sudden  change  has  come  upon 
thee  ! 

As  though  thy  fall  from  yonder  crag  were  sym- 
bol, 

Down  thou  hast  plung’d  where  cares  and 
danger  dwell. 

The  very  air  is  poison’d  with  suspicion, 

And  Envy  keeps  the  feverish  blood  astir. 

And  gives  its  vidlims  to  Anxiety. 

Alas  ! for  aye  the  wall  of  Paradise, 

Which  safely  held  thee,  has  been  torn  away. 
The  holy  lesson  of  thy  innocence 
No  longer  shields  me  from  the  world’s  tempta- 
tions. 

Forth  must  thou  with  me  till  the  net  surround 
us — 

Perplex’d,  sore  wounded,  needing  pity,  both  ! 


249 


The  Natural  Daughter. 


Eugenie.  Not  so,  my  fluher  ! If  until  to- 
day 

Inadtive,  kept  aloof,  immur’d  alone, 

A childish  cypher,  yet  by  very  force 
Of  lacking  individuality 
I caus’d  thee  consolation,  comfort,  pleasure. 
How  vastly  more  then  should  thy  daughter  be 
Now  that  her  fate  is  woven  into  thine. 

And  all  its  threads  in  varied  glory  shine ! 

Part  will  I take  in  ev’ry  noble  deed. 

In  ev’ry  great  transadlion  which  will  bring 
My  father  dearer  to  the  State  and  King. 


My  eager  mind,  the  force  of  youth  and  health 
Inspiring  me,  will  give  thee  freshen’d  zeal. 
Will  drive  away  those  visions  of  despair 
Which  rise  when  on  the  laboring  breast  of 
man 

dlie  monstrous  burden  of  the  world  is  laid. 

If  once,  a child,  in  moments  of  depression 
I offer’d  thee  good-will  however  helpless. 

Love  poor  in  deeds,  and  idle  fond  caresses. 

So  now  I hope  to  win  a daughter’s  birthright 
By  faithful  service,  having  learn’d  thy  wishes. 
Initiated  in  the  secrets  of  thy  plans. 


Duke.  What  thou  through  this  important 
step  wilt  lose 

Seems  worthless  to  thee  and  without  reward. 
What  thou  expedlest  thou  dost  prize  too  high. 
Eugenie.  To  share  with  highly-gifted,  for- 
tunate men 

The  use  of  power,  the  wealth  of  influence  ! 
For  generous  souls  what  more  attradtive  prize  ! 
Duke.  ’Tis  true!  Forgive  me  if  thou  find- 
est  me 

At  this  hour  weaker  than  becomes  a man. 

Most  wonderful  is  this  exchange  of  duties, 

I ought  to  lead  thee  and  thou  art  my  leader. 
Eugenie.  Well,  then,  my  father,  let  us 
boldly  climb 

Up  to  those  regions  where  before  my  ken 
A new  sun  rises  with  enkindling  rays. 

And  at  this  happy  moment  only  smile. 

If  I disclose  to  thee  in  turn  the  cares 
That  burden  me. 

Duke.  Yea,  tell  me  what  they  are. 

Eugenie.  A host  of  weighty  moments  fill 
men’s  lives, 

Besieging  now  with  joy  and  now  with  sorrow 
Their  hearts.  The  man  may  in  such  circum- 
stances 

Forget  his  outward  show  before  the  world  ; 

Not  so  the  woman ; she  desires  to  shine 
By  fair  appropriate  habit  and  adornment, — 
An  envied  objedt  in  the  eyes  of  others. 

This  have  I often  heard  and  often  notic’d. 
And  now  the  crowning  moment  of  my  life 
Has  come,  and  I am  willing  to  confess 
That  I am  guilty  of  this  woman’s  weakness. 
Duke.  What  canst  thou  wish  for  that  will 
not  be  thine? 

Eugenie.  Thou  art  inclin’d,  I know,  to 
grant  me  all. 

And  yet  the  all-important  day  is  nigh — 

Too  nigh  to  make  the  fitting  preparation. 

And  all  the  silks,  embroideries  and  laces. 

And  all  the  jewelry  needful  for  adornment. 
How  can  they  be  provided,  how  completed? 
Duke.  A long-desir’d  good  fortune  has 
surpris’d  us. 

Yet  not  quite  unprepar’d  may  we  receive  it; 
All  that  thou  now  desirest  is  at  hand. 

This  very  day  gifts  that  thou  didst  not  dream  of 
Lie  waiting  for  thee  in  a worthy  coffer. 

But  one  slight  trial  must  I put  upon  thee — 
The  foretaste  of  severer  ones  to  come  ! 

Here  is  the  key;  take  watchful  care  of  it. 

And  curb  thy  longing.  Open  not  the  box 
Which  holds  this  treasure  till  I give  thee  leave. 
Share  trust  with  no  one,  be  it  who  it  may. 
Wisdom  advises  and  the  King  demands  it. 


Eugenie.  Thou  layest  a heavy  burden  on 
a maiden. 

Yet  I will  bear  it,  father,  take  my  oath. 

Duke.  My  wild  unworthy  son  is  on  the 
watch 

To  spy  the  quiet  paths  where  thou  art  led. 

The  little  portion  of  my  substance  treasur’d 
For  thy  proteftion  he  already  covets. 

And  if  he  knew  that  thou  by  royal  favor 
Wert  lifted  to  a higher  station  where 
Thy  right  and  his  were  on  an  equal  level. 

How  he  would  rage ! And  would  he  not 
exert 

All  spiteful  wiles  to  block  our  pleasant  plan? 
Eugenie.  Then  let  us  quietly  await  that 
day ! 

And  when  the  deed  is  done  that  justifies  me 
In  calling  him  my  brother,  be  it  mine. 

By  gentle  words,  by  courteous  behavior. 

To  win  him  back  to  reverence  and  affedlion. 
He  is  thy  son,  and  should  he  not,  like  thee. 

Be  fashion’d  in  the  mould  of  love  and  reason? 
Duke.  No  miracle  would  be  too  great  for 
thee. 

But  work  them  for  the  advantage  of  my  house. 
And  now  farewell ! Yet  now — alas ! in  part- 
ing 

I feel  once  more  the  pangs  of  cruel  fear. 

Here  in  my  arms  I held  thee  lying  dead  ! 

And  here  Despair  with  tiger  clutches  tore  me. 
Who  will  dispel  the  vision  from  my  eyes? 

I saw  thee  dead  ! Thus  wilt  thou  oft  appear 
Before  me  in  the  watches  of  the  night. 

In  visions  of  the  day.  Away  from  thee 
Have  I not  ever  been  distraught  by  fear  ? 

No  longer  will  it  be  the  mind’s  distemper; 

It  is  a real  irradicable  vision  ; 

My  child,  Eugenie,  of  my  life  the  life, 

Wan,  prostrate,  breathless,  lifeless  there. 
Eugenie.  Oh,  call  not  back  what  thou 
should’st  now  forget. 

My  fall  and  my  escape  should  rather  seem 
The  earnest  of  my  wonderful  good  fortune. 
Living,  thou  seest  me  before  thy  eyes. 

[^Embracing  him. 

And  living,  on  thy  heart  thou  feelest  me. 

So  let  me  ever,  ever  thus  return  ! 

And  with  the  touch  of  glowing,  loving  life 
Blot  out  the  loathsome  sight  of  hated  Death. 
Duke.  How  can  a child  appreciate  the 
pangs 

A father  feels  at  thought  of  threaten’d  loss? 

I will  confe.sS  that  oftentimes  thy  courage. 
Almost  o’erweening,  when,  upon  the  steed 
Seeming  a part  of  thee,  and  full  of  fire. 

More  like  a Centaur  with  its  doubled  vigor. 


251 


Thou  hast  o’er  vale  and  mountain  boldly 
dash’d, 

Through  stream  and  gully  flashing  like  a bird, 
Has  fill’d  my  heart  with  greater  fear  than  joy. 
Henceforth  I pray  thy  gallant  course  conform 
More  moderately  to  knighthood’s  joyous  prac- 
tice. 

Eugenie.  Before  the  careless.  Danger  yields 
the  palm ; 

She  often  takes  the  careful  by  surprise. 

Oh,  feel  once  more  that  limitless  keen  joy 
Which  thou  didst  feel  when,  as  a little  child, 

I boldly  waged  to  do  the  deeds  of  prowess 
Taught  by  thy  knightly  jiride  of  fatherhood. 
Duke.  My  fault  has  found  me  out,  and 
now  a life 

Of  ceaseless  worriment  must  punish  me. 

Does  not  the  courting  of  the  dangerous 
Invite  the  danger  that  it  holds  in  store? 

Eugenie.  ’Tis  Luck  not  Carefulness  that 
conquers  danger. 

Farewell,  my  father;  follow  now  thy  King, 
And  be,  if  only  for  thy  daughter’s  sake. 

His  blameless  vassal  and  his  faithful  friend. 
Farewell ! 

Duke.  Oh,  do  not  go  ! Remain  with  me, 
Yet  standing  in  this  place  alive,  eredt. 

As  when  thou  cam’st  to  life  again,  rejoicing 
With  healing  balm  my  sadly  riven  heart. 

Let  not  this  hour  of  bliss  remain  unfruitful. 
This  spot  I dedicate  to  be  a lasting 
Memorial.  Here  shall  rise  a splendid  temple 
To  keep  the  record  of  thy  fortunate  healing. 
Thy  hand  shall  here  create  a fairy  kingdom. 

A labyrinth  of  gentle  ways  shall  join 
The  savage  forest  and  the  bristling  jungle  ; 
The  steep  crag  shall  become  accessible  ; 


This  brook  shall  fall  in  musical  cascades. 

And  loiter  with  its  sparkling  waters  pure. 

The  stranger  wandering  through  this  novel 
scene 

Shall  deem  that  he  has  found  a Paradise. 

Here,  while  I live,  no  gun  shall  loudly  echo. 
No  bird  shall  miss  her  mate,  no  antler’d  stag 
Fly  frighten’d,  wounded,  shatter’d,  from  his 
haunt. 

And  hither,  when  my  eyes  have  lost  their  sight. 
My  limbs  their  strength,  with  thee,  my  child, 
for  guide. 

My  steps  will  gladly  turn  in  pilgrimage. 

Ever  shall  gratitude  my  bosom  fill. 

And  now  farewell ! But  stay.  Why  dost  thou 
weep  ? 

Eugenie.  Oh,  if  my  father  tremblingly  fore- 
bodes 

The  losing  of  his  daughter,  how  shall  I 
Not  likewise  feel  (how  can  I say  it,  think  it  ?) 

I The  pain  of  separation  which  must  come  ? 

Fathers  bereav’d  might  draw  an  angel’s  pity; 

I But  sadder  is  the  lot  of  children  orphan’d, 
i And  I,  most  miserable,  should  stand  alone 
Within  the  desert  of  this  wild,  fierce  world  ! 
How  could  I bear  to  lose  my  sole  protedlor? 
Duke.  As  thou  hast  given  me  strength,  I 
now  return  it. 

Take  comfort ! let  us  boldly  onward  press. 
Life  is  the  pledge  of  life  ! Upon  itself 
It  builds  and  for  itself  alone  must  answer. 

So  let  us  quickly  make  our  last  adieu. 

And  may  a joyous  meeting  recompense 
The  sorrow  and  the  weakness  of  this  parting ! 

[ They  hastily  evila-ace  and  separate ; from  a 
distance  they  turn  and  wave  a last  greeting 
with  outstretched  hand  and  exit. 


252 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  E — Eugenie’s  apartmefit  in  Gothic 
style. 

Governess.  Secretary. 

Secretary.  Do  I deserve  that  thou  should’ st 
flee  me  thus 

The  moment  that  I bring  thee  wish’d-for  ti- 
dings? 

Pray  listen  first  to  what  I have  to  say. 

Governess.  The  burden  of  thy  importunity 
Too  well  I ween.  Oh,  let  my  eyes  from  seeing 
The  well-known  glances,  let  my  ears  from 
hearing 

The  well-known  accents  ever  turn  away. 

Let  me  escape  the  devastating  power 
Which  through  the  influence  of  love  and 
friendship 

Beside  me  like  a gloomy  spedlre  stands. 

Secretary.  When  I before  thee  suddenly 
would  pour. 

After  long  hope  deferr’d,  the  golden  horn 
Of  fortune,  when  the  morning-glow  begins 
That  marks  the  dawning  of  the  blissful  day 
That  shall  unite  our  lives  forevermore. 

Then  seemest  thou  embarrass’d  and  reludlant 
To  meet  thy  bridegroom’s  tenderest  advances. 

Governess.  Therein  thou  showest  me  one 
side  alone  : 

It  glows  and  glistens  like  the  world  in  sunshine. 
But  black  night’s  horror  threatens  nigh:  I 
feel  it. 


Secretary.  Then  let  us  first  see  but  the 
lovely  side. 

Desirest  thou  a dwelling  in  the  city. 

Spacious  and  handsome,  furnish’d  splendidly. 
Such  as  one  wishes  for  himself,  for  guests? 

’Tis  waiting  for  thee:  when  next  winter  comes 
’Twill  find  thee  settl’d  nobly,  if  thou  wilt. 

In  Springtime  dost  thou  yearn  to  see  the 
country. 

There  too  a house  is  ours,  a lovely  garden, 

A fertile  field.  And  all  the  keen  enjoyment 
In  forest,  moors,  in  meadows,  brooks  and  ponds 
That  fancy  e’en  in  visions  might  imagine 
Shall  we  possess,  in  part  our  own  estate. 

In  part  as  common  property.  And  thus. 
Since  nothing  goes  for  rent,  by  careful  saving 
We  shall  be  able  to  secure  our  future. 

Governess.  The  pidlure  that  thou  painte.st 
with  such  hues 

Before  my  eyes  is  wrapp’d  in  gloomy  clouds. 
For  not  desirable  but  hideous  seems 
The  abundance  offer’d  by  the  worldly  gods. 
What  is  the  sacrifice  they  ask?  d'o  ruin 
My  gentle  pupil’s  happiness  and  fortune  ! 

And  whatsoe’er  a crime  like  that  might  bring 
me. 

Could  I enjoy  it  with  a quiet  mind? 

Eugenie!  thou  whose  pure  and  gentle  nature 
From  earliest  youth  entrusted  to  my  guidance 
With  rich  fruition  has  develop’d  nobly. 

How  can  I now  distinguish  in  thee  what 


253 


Is  thine  and  what  thou  hast  to  thank  me  for? 
'Fhee  whom  I love  as  my  own  handiwork 
Must  I then  pluck  out  from  my  heart  and  ruin? 
Of  what  base  stuff  are  ye  compos’d,  ye  mon- 
sters, 

To  dare  demand  a deed  like  this  for  lucre  ! 
Secretary.  A good  and  honest  heart  pre- 
serves from  youth 

A store  of  precious  treasures  which  in  time 
More  costly  grow  and  worthier  of  our  love 
To  serve  withal  the  Godhead  of  the  temple. 
Yet,  when  the  mighty  power  that  governs  us 
Demands  a costly  sacrifice,  we  yield  it 
At  last  although  our  hearts  bleed  at  the  duty. 
Two  worlds  there  be,  my  darling,  which,  con- 
flidling 

With  awful  violence,  crush  us  between  them. 
Governess.  Thy  steps  appear  to  wander 
in  a world 

To  me  entirely  foreign,  since  thou  schemest 
A treacherous  stroke  against  thy  noble  patron, 
'I’he  Duke,  preparing  days  of  sorrow  for  him 
By  holding  to  his  son.  If  the  Almighty 
Appears  at  times  to  give  assent  to  crime 
W e call  it  accident.  But  man  who  chooses 
With  due  refledlion  such  unlawful  paths. 

He  is  a puzzle.  But — and  am  not  I 
A puzzle  to  myself  that  I should  cling 
With  such  affedlion  to  thee  when  thou  strivest 
To  drag  me  with  thee  o’er  the  precipice? 

Oh,  why  did  Nature  cast  thee  in  her  mould. 

So  pleasing,  lovely,  irresistible. 

And  plant  within  thy  bosom  a cold  heart, 

A heart  destrudlive  of  the  peace  of  others? 
Secretary.  Dost  thou  distrust  the  w'armth 
of  my  affedlion  ? 

Governess.  This  hand  should  slay  me  if  I 
only  dar’d. 

Oh,  why,  alas ! with  this  detested  plot 
Again  assault  my  heart  ? Didst  thou  not  swear 
To  hide  the  horror  in  everlasting  night? 
Secretary.  Alas  ! it  rose  with  more  im- 
pellent might  ! 

This  step  is  forc’d  upon  the  Prince’s  son. 

An  insignificant,  inoffensive  child 
Eugenie  was,  for  many  peaceful  years. 
Commencing  with  her  very  earliest  days. 
Shrin’d  in  this  ancient  hall  thou  wert  her 
guardian. 

Few  came  to  see  her,  and  those  secretly. 

Yet  how  a father’s  love  deceiv’d  itself. 

The  Duke,  proud  of  his  daughter’s  excellence. 
Relax’d  his  care  and  by  degrees  allow’d  her 
'I'o  show  herself  in  public  openly : 

On  horseback,  driving,  she  is  seen.  All  ask. 
And  all  at  last  know,  who  the  maiden  is. 


Her  mother  now  is  dead.  The  haughty  dame. 
To  whom  the  child  was  an  abomination, 

A keen  reminder  of  her  fatal  passion. 

Had  never  recogniz’d  her,  scarcely  seen  her. 
By  her  decease  the  Duke  at  last  feels  freed. 
Devises  secret  plans,  once  more  attends 
At  court,  forgets  the  ancient  grudge  he  owed 
And  seeks  the  King  in  reconciliation. 
Demanding  only  that  he  grant  this  child 
Her  birthright  as  a jirincess  of  his  race. 

Governess.  And  do  you  then  begrudge 
this  lovely  creature 

The  joy  of  feeling  that  the  right  was  hers? 
Secretary.  Belov’d  ! dearest  ! ah,  thou 
speakest  lightly. 

Thus  wall’d  and  separated  from  the  world. 

In  cloister-wise,  of  riches  of  the  earth  ! 

Turn  hence  thine  eyes  ! A treasure  such  as  this 
Is  valu’d  there  more  truly  at  its  worth. 

The  father  grudges  it  his  son,  the  son 
Reckons  his  father’s  years,  and  deadly  discord 
Parts  brothers,  through  this  right  intangible. 
And  e’en  the  jtriest  forgets  his  sacred  goal 
And  strives  for  riches.  Is  it  then  surprising 
That,  when  the  Prince  has  always  call’d  him- 
self 

The  only  child,  he  should  decline  to  welcome 
This  sister  who  with  insolent  intrusion 
Diminishes  his  fair  inheritance? 

What,  if  in  his  place,  would’st  thou  do  thyself? 
Governess.  Already  is  he  not  a wealthy 
Prince  ? 

And  at  his  father’s  death  will  he  not  be 
Superfluously  rich  ? If  he  should  spend 
A part  of  liis  possessions  would  he  waste  them 
In  winning  by  them  such  a lovely  sister? 
Secretary.  To  a6l  with  arbitrary  will  de- 
lights 

The  man  of  fortune.  Nature’s  claims  he 
scorns ; 

He  scorns  the  authority  of  law  and  reason. 
And  spends  his  substance  on  the  throw  of 
chance. 

Merely  to  have  sufficient  is  to  starve. 

Give  all  or  nothing.  Measureless  possessions 
For  endless  squandering  are  what  he  wishes. 
Advice  is  not  desir’d  ; think  not  to  turn  us. 

If  thou  wilt  not  work  with  us,  give  us  up. 
Governess.  Wliat  is  the  deed  ye  plan  ? 
Long  ye  have  threaten’d. 

Holding  aloof,  to  blast  the  lovely  child. 

What  have  ye  now  in  monstrous  crime  devis’d 
To  spoil  her  chance  of  fortune.  Do  ye  ask 
That  I should  blindly  cling  to  what  ye  plan  ? 
Secretary.  By  no  means.  Thou  shalt  be 
initiated. 


254 


The  first  step  lies  with  thee.  Our  scheme  de- 
mands 

That  thou  abdu6t  Eugenie.  She  must  vanish 
So  utterly  from  knowledge  of  the  world 
'riiat  we  can  confidently  mourn  her  death. 

The  secret  of  her  fate  must  be  conceal’d 
Forever,  like  the  secret  of  the  dead. 

Governess.  Ye  doom  her  to  a living  grave, 
O villains. 

And  think  to  send  me  with  her  as  companion. 
Me  too  ye  doom.  I am  with  her  to  share — 

I the  betrayer  chain’d  to  the  betray’d — 

The  awful  fate  of  death,  a living  death ! 

Secre'i  ary.  Thou  shalt  return  when  thou 
hast  done  the  deed. 

Governess.  Is  it  a cloister  where  her  days 
will  end  ? 

Secretary.  Not  in  a cloister ! Such  a 
costly  pledge 

We  could  not  give  the  clergy,  who  might  use  it 
Against  us  as  a most  convenient  tool. 

Governess.  Then  is  it  to  the  Islands? 
Tell  me  plainly ! 

Secretary.  Thy  destination  shall  be  known. 
Be  patient ! 

Governess.  How  can  I be  before  the  fear 
and  danger 

That  threat  my  lov’d  one’s  happiness  and 
mine  ? 

Secretary.  Thy  lov’d  one  in  her  new  life 
joy  will  find. 

And  joy  and  rapture  will  await  thee  here. 

Governess.  Oh,  flatter  not  yourselves  with 
such  a hope ! ! 

What  good  is  there  in  holding  such  tempta-  ' 
tions 

Before  me — forcing  me,  enticing  me? 

The  noble  child  herself  will  block  your 
scheme. 

Think  not  to  drag  her  off  a willing  vidlim 
And  helpless.  Nay,  the  spirit  that  fills  her 
heart 

With  courage,  and  the  power  inherited. 

Will  go  with  her  where’er  she  goes,  and  break 
The  evil  net  which  you  have  cast  around  her. 

Secretary.  Thy  part  will  be  to  make  the 
meshes  strong. 

Wilt  thou  persuade  me  that  a simple  child. 

Till  now  protedled  by  the  arm  of  Fortune, 

Will  show,  when  unexpedled  chance  arises. 
Forethought  and  power,  sagacity  and  wis- 
dom ? 

Her  mind  is  cultur’d  but  to  think,  not  adt. 

And  if  her  thoughts  are  right,  her  speech  de- 
lightful, 

Yet  much  is  lacking  in  her  will  to  do. 


The  lofty  boundless  courage  of  ignorance 
Sinks  easily  to  cowardice  and  despair 
When  stern  Necessity  presents  itself. 

What  we  have  plann’d  see  that  thou  carry  out. 
Small  will  the  harm  be,  splendid  the  reward. 
Governess.  Then  give  me  time  to  ponder 
and  decide. 

Secretary.  The  moment  for  the  adfion  is 
at  hand. 

The  Duke  knows  well  that  the  next  holiday 
The  King  will  grant  the  favor  long  desired, 
And  recognize  his  daughter’s  princely  birth. 
For  clothes  and  costly  jewels  are  provided 
Already,  laid  in  splendid  cabinets. 

The  keys  of  which  he  guards  with  jealous 
care. 

And  thinks  he  keeps  a perfedt  mystery. 

But  we  are  in  his  secret  and  prepar’d. 

What  we  have  schem’d  must  quickly  now  be 
done. 

This  evening  thou’ It  hear  more.  Till  then 
farewell. 

Governess.  On  dubious  paths  ye  work,  on 
mischief  bent. 

And  think  ye  see  a profit  in  your  plans. 

Has  no  suspicion  ever  cross’d  your  mind 
That  over  guilt  and  innocence  there  hovers 
A Being  from  whose  essence  streams  avenging 
A light  divine  that  rescues  the  oppress’d? 
Secretary.  Who  dares  gainsay  the  ruling 
Providence 

That  shapes  conformably  to  his  own  will 
The  outcome  of  our  deeds  whate’er  they  be? 
Yet  who  presumes  to  make  himself  an  arbiter 
In  God’s  high  councils?  Who  can  know 
The  rule  and  law  by  which  his  fiat  works  ? 

We  have  our  reason,  and  in  stature  grown 
We  walk  eredl  upon  the  face  of  earth, 

And  our  advantage  is  our  highest  right. 

Governess.  Thus  are  ye  traitors  to  the 
godlike 

If  ye  despise  the  didlates  of  the  heart ! 

It  calls  me  boldly  to  ward  off  the  danger 
That  hangs  with  horrid  threat’ning  o’er  my 
darling ; 

It  bids  me  arm  myself  against  my  lover, 
Against  the  base  designs  that  strong  men 
harbor ! 

No  glittering  promise  and  no  threats  shall 
force  me 

To  leave  my  rightful  place  beside  my  pupil ; 
Thus  do  I stand  devoted  to  protedt  her. 
Secretary.  Ah  ! sweetest,  thou  alone  canst 
give  her  safety. 

And  thou  alone  the  danger  canst  avert 
And  at  the  selfsame  time  assist  our  plan. 


255 


Lay  hold  upon  her  swiftly;  take  the  maiden 
As  far  as  possible  away,  conceal  her 
'i'hat  no  one  know  her  habitation  ! Else — 
(Thou  tremblest — for  thou  knowest  well 
The  words  upon  my  lips  !)  Since  thou  hast 
forc’d  me 

Let  the  alternative  at  last  be  said : — 

Removal  with  her  is  the  mildest  measure — 

If  thou  refusest  to  co-operate, 

If  thou  art  minded  secretly  to  check  us, 

And  if  thou  darest,  out  of  friendly  purpose. 
To  drop  the  slightest  hint  of  what  I tell 
thee. 

Then  dead  she  lies  upon  thy  bosom  ! What 
Would  fill  my  heart  with  sorrow  must  be 
done ! 


SCENE  II. 

Governess.  His  angry  threat  brings  no 
surprise  for  me  ! 

’Tis  long  that  I have  seen  this  smouldering  fire. 
And  now  it  bursts  in  flames  of  fury  out. 

If  I would  save  thee,  must  I,  darling  child. 
Dispel  the  lovely  dream  that  beckons  thee? 
One  hope  alone  diminishes  my  sorrow — 

It  vanishes  before  I fairly  hold  it. 

Eugenie  ! if  thou  only  could’st  renounce 
The  splendid  fortune,  which  appears  so  bound- 
less. 

Before  thy  footsteps  cross  the  fatal  threshold 
Where  danger,  death,  or  banishment  awaits 
thee ! 


256 


Oh,  if  I only  dared  enlighten  thee, 

Dared  point  the  secret  hiding-place  where  lurk 
The  evil  conclave  of  thy  persecutors  ! 

Ah,  I must  keep  dark  counsel ! Only  hints 
Can  shrive  my  soul  before  thee  ! In  the  tumult 
Of  eager  pleasure  wilt  thou  understand  ? 


SCENE  III. 

Eugenie.  Governess. 

Eugenie.  Welcome  a thousand  times,  friend 
of  my  heart. 

Who  showest  a mother’s  fondness  for  me,  wel- 
come ! 

Governess.  With  joy,  dear  child,  I press 
thee  to  my  bosom. 

And  share  the  rapture  which  thy  buoyant  life 
So  richly  yields  thee.  How  thy  dear  eyes 
sparkle  ! 

O’er  cheek  and  brow  what  lovely  color  mantles. 
What  joyous  fortune  swells  thy  youthful  breast? 

Eugenie.  A great  misfortune  has  befallen 
me  : 

The  horse  fell  headlong  from  the  crag  with  me. 

Governess.  My  God  ! 

Eugenie.  Be  calm  ! thou  seest  me  again 
Unharm’d  and  fortunate,  though  great  the  fall ! 

Governess.  How  was  it  ? Tell  me  ! 

Eugenie.  Thou  shalt  hear  how  fortune 
Resulted  splendidly  from  my  disaster. 

Governess.  Alas  ! from  fortune  often  pain 
develops. 

Eugenie.  Let  words  of  evil  import  not  be 
spoken. 

And  fright  me  not  with  evil  thoughts  of  sor- 
row ! 

Governess.  Ah,  would  that  thou  could’st 
trust  me  absolutely ! 

Eugenie.  Above  all  others  thee ! Yet 
leave  me  now, 

Beloved,  to  myself!  I wish,  alone. 

To  wont  myself  to  feelings  new  and  strange. 
Thou  knowest  what  delight  my  father  takes 
Whene’er  a little  poem  comes  to  greet  him 
Not  look’d  for,  as  the  favor  of  the  Muses 
Grants  power  to  give  expression  to  my  thoughts. 
So  leave  me  ! Even  now  the  inspiration 
Is  on  me ; I must  seize  it  ere  it  fail  me. 

Governess.  When  shall  we  hold  again  the 
precious  hours 

Of  sweet  discourse  and  gentle  confidences? 
When  shall  we  once  again  like  happy  maidens, 


Who  tireless  show  each  other  their  adornments, 
Unlock  the  secret  chambers  of  our  hearts. 
Comparing  all  our  changeable  possessions? 
Eugenie.  Those  pleasant  moments  will  re- 
turn again 

Whose  peaceful  joys  one  gladly  recolledls. 
Sharing  with  confidence  our  confidences. 

Yet  leave  me  in  full  loneliness  to-day 
To  find  the  need  of  trustful  days  like  those. 


SCENE  IV. 

Eugenie.  . Later  Governess  without. 

Eugenie.  ( Getting  out  a portfolio.) 

Now  quick  to  work  with  parchment  and  with 
pen  I 

’Tis  wholly  mine  and  soon  it  shall  be  written; 
The  tribute  flowing  from  my  thankful  heart. 
Which  to  the  King,  upon  that  festal  day 
When,  new-born  by  his  all-compelling  word, 

I enter  life,  shall  now  be  dedicated. 

\_She  copies  out  what  she  slowly  recites. 
With  what  a wondrous  prospedt  am  I greeted ! 
Canst  thou,  O master  of  the  realm  elysian. 
Forgive  the  novice  for  her  indecision  ? 
Blinded  by  Majesty  I sink  defeated  ! 

Yet  soon  encourag’d  by  the  judgment  meted, 

I lift  to  thee  my  eyes  in  raptur’d  vision. 
Confess’d  thy  kin,  receiv’d  without  derision. 
And  all  my  young  hopes  are  at  last  completed  ! 

Thus  let  the  boundless  spring  of  grace  flow 
ever ! 

Here  will  my  faithful  heart,  ecstatic,  tarry. 
Sway’d  by  the  majesty  of  love’s  emotion. 
My  all  hangs  by  a thread  a touch  might  sever ! 
Methinks  the  life  thou  gavest  I should  carry 
And  lay  before  thy  throne  in  sweet  devo- 
tion. 

[ Contemplating  her  writing  with  satisfaPlion. 
Long  has  it  been,  O agitated  heart, 

Since  thou  hast  spoken  in  the  words  of  ver.se. 
How  happy  are  we  when  our  inmost  feelings 
Can  take  the  impress  of  infinity ! 

Yet  is  it  quite  enough  ? Here  streams  it  forth. 
Here  streams  it  up ! Great  day,  thou  drawest 

Which  gives  the  King  to  us  and  which  shall  give 
For  measureless  delight  me  to  the  King, 

Me  to  my  father,  me  nnto  myself. 

May  this  high  festival  exalt  my  song  ! 

The  wings  of  Fancy  are  already  spread. 


257 


It  bears  me  tip  before  the  throne,  presents  me, 
And  gives  me  to  the  circle  rare — 

Governess.  Eugenie ! 

Eugenie.  Hark  ! What  is  that  ? 
Governess.  ’Tis  I ! Open  the  door  ! 

Eugenie.  Vexatious  interruption  ! I am 
busy. 

Governess.  Word  from  thy  father  ! 
Eugenie.  What!  my  father?  Hold! 

Then  I will  open  ! 

Governess.  Yes,  thy  father  sends 

Great  gifts  to  thee 

Eugenie.  One  moment  ! 

Governess.  Dost  thou  hear? 

Eugenie.  One  moment ! Where  shall  I 
conceal  this  paper  ? 

Too  clearly  it  betrays  the  hopes  I feel. 

No  nook  affords  concealment ! and  with  me 
There  is  no  safety  even  in  my  desk. 

For  treacherous  and  faithless  are  my  servants. 
When  I have  slept  my  papers  have  been  rum- 
mag’d. 

And  many  of  my  treasures  have  been  stolen. 
This  mystery,  the  greatest  of  my  life. 

Where,  where  shall  I bestow  it  ? 

approaches  ihe  wall. 
Ah,  yes!  here. 

Where  thou,  in  days  past,  wainscot  cabinet. 
Didst  hide  the  innocent  secrets  of  my  child- 
hood ! 

Discover’d  by  my  restless  energy. 

Investigating,  born  of  idleness 
And  childish  natural  curiosity. 

Thou,  known  to  no  one  save  myself,  springest 
open  ! 

\_She  presses  on  an  invisible  spring  and  a 
little  door  flies  open. 

Thus  as  I once  conceal’d  forbidden  sweets 
For  sly  enjoyment  in  thy  secret  chamber. 

So  now,  transported,  timid,  I entrust  thee 
A little  space  with  my  life’s  happiness. 

\_Slie  lays  the  parclunent  in  the  cupboard  and 
closes  it. 

The  days  press  on  and  full  of  expedlation 
Bring  joy  and  sadness  with  them  in  their  train. 

[She  opens  the  door. 


SCENE  V. 

Eugenie.  Governess.  Servants  bringing 
a magniflcent  dressing-case. 

Governess.  If  I disturb  thee,  still  I bring 
with  me 

What  in  thy  eyes  should  give  me  absolution. 


Eugenie.  This  from  my  father!  This  re- 
splendent gift ! 

What  content  does  a shrine  like  that  por- 
tend ? 

( To  the  Servants.^ 

Ho  ! tarry  yet  a moment  ! 

[She  hands  them  a ptirse. 

Take  this  trifle 

As  foretaste  of  reward  for  service  ! richer  fol- 
lows ! [Exit  Servants. 

No  letter  and  no  key  ! ’Tis  passing  strange  ! 
Must  such  a treasure  wait  me  unexplor’d? 

0 curiosity  ! O eager  longing  ! 

Suspedlest  thou  what  mean  these  gifts  to  me? 

Governess.  I doubt  not  thou  thyself  hast 
solv’d  the  riddle. 

It  signifies  a coming  elevation. 

The  finery  of  a princess  is  allow’d  thee 
Because  the  King  will  soon  declare  thy  rank. 

Eugenie.  What  makes  thee  think  so? 

Governess.  Oh,  I know  it  well  ! 

The  secrets  of  the  great  are  never  kept. 

Eugenie.  Well,  if  thou  knowest,  why  should 
I dissemble? 

Shall  I restrain  before  thee  without  reason 
My  curiosity  to  see  this  gift  ? The  key 
Is  here  ! I know  my  father  did  forbid  it. 

Yet  what  did  he  forbid  ? To  tell  the  secret 
Before  the  time.  Yet  thou  already  knowest 
The  weighty  news:  what  more  is  there  to  tell 
Than  thou  hast  heard,  and  through  thy  love  for 
me 

Hast  kept  in  guard  beneath  the  seal  of  silence? 
Why  then  delay?  Come,  let  us  open  ! come  ! 
So  that  the  glory  of  the  gifts  may  charm  us  ! 

Governess.  Nay  ! touch  it  not  ! Remem- 
ber his  forbiddance. 

Who  knows  the  reason  of  the  Duke’s  com- 
mand ? 

Eugenie.  He  had  a purpose  for  his  prohi- 
bition. 

That  purpose  now  is  render’d  nugatory  ; 

Thou  knowest  all.  Thou  lovest  me,  thou  art 
A faithful  friend  that  can  preserve  a secret. 

So  let  us  push  the  bolt  and  close  the  cham- 
ber, 

1 And  let  us  quick  together  solve  the  mystery. 

[She  shuts  the  chamber  door  and  runs  to  the 
casket. 

Governess.  (Restraining  her.)  The  gold, 
the  colors  of  the  splendid  fabrics, 

The  soft  light  of  the  pearls,  the  gleam  of 
jewels, 

j Ah  ! let  them  all  remain  unseen  ! They  tempt 
thee 

I Beyond  control  to  seek  the  fatal  goal ! 


258 


artist:  otto  seitz. 

THE  NATURAL  DAUGHTER. 


ACT  II,  SCENE  IV. 


EUGENIA  PLACING  THE  PARCHMENT  IN  THE  PRESS. 


' 


Eugenie.  Not  they,  but  what  they  signify, 
attrahl  me. 

\^She  opens  the  box ; mirrors  adorn. the  cover. 
What  costly  raiment,  lying  folded  there 
E’en  as  I touch  it,  .shows  before  my  eyes  ! 

And  do  these  mirrors  not  make  swift  demand 
'I'o  image  forth  the  maiden  in  her  jewels? 

Governess.  Medea’s  fiery  garment  seems 
to  me 

To  lie  unfolded  in  my  nerveless  hand  ! 

Eugenie.  What  Melancholy  weaves  its 
mist  around  thee  ? 

Think  rather  of  delightful  bridal  feasts  ! 

Come  ! reach  the  treasures  to  me  one  by  one  ! 
That  underdress  ! how  richly,  sweetly  gleam 
The  silver  gauze,  the  sparkle  of  its  hues. 

Governess.  ( Throwmg  the  garmetit  over 
Eugenie’s  shoulders.)  If  e’er  the  rays 
of  Favor’s  sun  should  darken, 

The  cause  would  be  such  glory’-s  bright  reflec- 
tion. 

Eugenie.  A faithful  heart  deserves  the 
rays  of  favor. 

And  if  they  fail  it  draws  them  back  again. — 
Now  bring  the  gold-embroider’d  overskirt. 
And  spread  the  train  with  all  its  wealth  of  lace. 
The  brilliancy  of  flowers  has  ting’d  the  gold 
Spread  in  metallic  hues  with  tasteful  choice. 
Am  I not  beautiful  in  this  array? 

Governess.  Yet  beauty  unadorn’d  is 
honor’d  more 

For  its  own  splendor  by  the  truly  wise. 

Eugenie.  The  truly  wise  may  treasure 
simple  beauty. 

But  most  prefer  the  beauty  that’s  adorn’d. — 
Now  bring  the  tender  twilight  of  the  pearls. 
The  flashing  glory  of  the  splendid  jewels. 

Governess.  Yet  not  the  appearance  but 
the  genuine  worth 

Can  satisfy  the  cravings  of  thy  heart  ! 

Eugenie.  What  is  appearance  having 
naught  of  substance. 

And  what  would  substance  be  without  ap- 
pearance ? 

Govekne.ss.  And  hast  thou  not  enjoy’d 
within  these  walls 

The  long  untroubled  days  of  sunny  youth. 

Nor  felt  the  secret  bliss  of  holy  rapture 
When  cradled  with  the  hearts  of  those  that 
love  thee  ? 

Eugenie.  The  tender  bud  rejoices  in  its 
calyx 

So  long  as  Winter’s  frost  besieges  it ; 

But  now  the  breath  of  Spring  inspires  its  life. 
It  bursts  in  blossoms,  full  of  light  and  fra- 
grance ! 


Governess.  But  moderation  gives  a joy 
serene  ! 

Eugenie.  Provided  that  a moderate  aim 
is  set. 

Governess.  He  who  enjoys  submits  to 
limitations. 

Eugenie.  Thy  arguments  persuade  me 
not,  thus  rob’d. 

Oh,  would  that  this  apartment  might  expand 
Until  it  reach’d  the  glory  of  the  King’s. 

That  splendid  carpets  deck’d  the  polish’d 
floors. 

That  golden  groins  might  overarch  the  vault  ! 

I And  thus  before  the  throne  of  royalty 
! With  humble  pride,  among  the  haughty  nobles 
Refledling  back  the  smiling  beams  of  grace, 

I ’mid  the  circle  of  distinguish’d  ones 
Should  stand  the  most  distinguish’d  at  the 
pageant. 

Oh,  let  me  have  the  foretaste  of  this  joy 
W’hen  all  the  world  shall  wonder  at  my  for- 
tune. 

Governess.  Thou’ It  be  an  objedt  not  of 
wonder  only  : 

Envy  will  mark  thee,  hate  will  seek  thy  ruin. 
Eugenie.  Success  must  ever  raise  the  coils 
of  envy. 

We  learn  to  keep  our  guard  when  haters  prowl. 
Governess.  Humiliation  oft  surprises  pride. 
Eugenie.  Presence  of  mind  will  guard 
against  surprise  ! 

[ Turning  to  the  dressing-case. 
Not  yet  have  we  examin’d  everything. 

For  self  alone  I do  not  ask  this  fortune  ; 

With  others  would  I all  my  treasures  share. 

Governess.  ( Taking  out  a jewel  box.) 
Here  written  on  this  box  the  words:  “For 
Gifts.” 

Eugenie.  Then  pray  seledl  the  things  that 
please  thee  most. 

Among  these  watches,  boxes,  take  thy  choice. 
Yet  hold  ! Be  wary  ! Who  can  tell?  Perchance 
Yet  costlier  things  lie  hid  within  the  case  ! 
Governess.  Would  that  a powerful  talis- 
man were  here 

To  win  thy  cruel  brother’s  love  to  thee  ! 
Eugenie.  The  pure  affedlions  of  the  in- 
genuous heart 

May  gradually  soften  his  ill  will. 

Governess.  Yet  those  who  strive  to  make 
more  black  his  grudge 
I Are  pledg’d  forever  to  oppose  thy  wishes. 

' Eugenie.  If  they  till  now  have  sought  to 
^ block  my  fortune, 

j Yet  since  the  grand  decision  has  been  made 
They  will  each  one  conform  without  a murmur. 


259 


Governess.  That  which  thou  hopest  is  not 
yet  accomplish’d. 

Eugenie.  \Tt  'tis  so  safe  that  I can  call 
it  done.  \_Refirnii/ig  to  the  case  again. 

See  what  is  lying  in  that  long  flat  box ! 

Governess.  (Uncovering  it.)  The  love- 
liest ribbons,  fresh  and  newly  chosen  ! 

Ah,  let  not  curious  contemplation  ruin 

With  dissipating  tendency  thy  mind. 

Oh,  would  it  might  be,  that  my  earnest  warn- 
ing 

Should  make  a moment’s  impress  on  thy  mind. 

From  the  still  circle  thou  wilt  soon  emerge 

On  wider  fields  where  anxious  cares  will  harass. 

Where  dangerous  snares,  where  Death  itself, 
perchance. 

From  murderous  hands  of  enemies  await  thee. 

Eugenie.  Thou  art  unwell!  How  can 
my  sure  success 

Appear  to  thee  as  frightful  as  a spedtre? 

[ Gazing  into  the  box. 

W’hatdolsee?  This  roll ! ’tis  verily 

The  ribbon  of  the  noblest  princely  order  ! 

'I'his  also  I must  wear  then  ! Come  I make 
haste  ! 


I wish  to  see  its  whole  effedt  1 ’Tis  part 
Of  this  superb  array.  It  must  be  tried  ! 

[ The  order  is  attached. 
Now  prate  to  me  of  death  I now  prate  of 
danger ! 

What  nobler  grace  than  when  a man  can  stand 

In  all  the  bravery  of  heroic  garb 

Amid  his  peers  in  presence  of  his  King? 

What  gives  more  satisfadlion  to  the  eye 
Than  robes  that  tell  of  splendid  lines  of 
knights? 

This  raiment  and  its  colors  are  they  not 
A .symbol  of  the  danger  ever  near? 

The  .sash,  significant  of  war,  wherewith 
A man  with  dauntless  courage  girds  himself? 
My  friend,  my  love!  Whatever  ornament 
Is  emblematical  of  peril,  that 
Must,  of  necessity,  be  dangerous  ! 

So  give  me  then  the  sentiment  of  courage 
To  meet  the  dangers  menacing  my  path. 
Array’d,  as  now,  in  splendid  princely  garb. 
Henceforth,  irrevocable  is  my  fortune. 

Governess.  (Aside.)  The  fate  that  calls 
thee  is  irrevocable. 


260 


\ 

i 

I' 


i 

\ 


t: 


I 

» 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  L — The  Antechamber  of  the 
Duke,  furnished  in  magnificent  modern 
style. 

Secretary.  Secular  Priest. 

Secretary.  Tread  silently  into  this  deathly 
silence  ! 

The  palace  is  as  quiet  as  the  tomb. 

The  Duke  is  sleeping,  and  the  servants  all. 
Touch’d  by  his  grief,  are  bent  in  sympathy. 
He  sleeps  ! I bless’d  him  as  I saw  him  lie 
Wrapp’d  in  unconsciousness  upon  his  pillow 
Peacefully  breathing.  The  excess  of  woe 
Has  yielded  to  the  healing  balm  of  Nature. 
The  moment  that  shall  wake  him,  that  I fear^ 
A man  of  grief  before  you  will  appear  ! 

Secular  Priest.  I am  prepar’d  to  see  him, 
doubt  it  not. 

Secretary.  An  hour  or  two  ago  the  tidings 
came 

That  fair  Eugenie  had  been  thrown  and  kill’d. 
You  must  confirm  it : say  that  she  was  brought 
Unto  your  chapel  as  the  nearest  place 
That  they  could  take  her  from  the  treacherous 
ground. 


Where,  boldly  courting  death,  she  forc’d  her 
steed. 

Secular  Priest.  And  in  the  meantime  she 
is  far  away  ? 

Secretary.  With  breathless  haste  the  speed- 
ing coursers  fly. 

Secular  Priest.  To  whom  entrust  you 
such  a weighty  task  ? 

Secretary.  The  prudent  good  wife  who  is 
wholly  ours. 

Secular  Priest.  To  Xvhat  far  region  have 
you  sent  the  maid  ? 

Secretary.  The  port  that  lies  most  distant 
in  this  realm. 

Secular  Priest.  And  will  a foreign  shore 
receive  her  next  ? 

Secretary.  The  favoring  wind  will  bear 
her  quickly  hence. 

Secular  Priest.  And  will  they  here  for- 
ever think  her  dead  ? 

Secretary.  The  purjiort  of  thy  fiftion  shall 
decide. 

Secular  Priest.  And  so  this  error  from 
the  very  first 

Will  sway  the  fortune  of  all  coming  time. 


261 


Her  very  grave  is  feign’d,  and  for  her  body 
A mask  shall  cheat  the  eye.  Her  lovely  image 
Shall  shatter  in  a thousand  pieces.  Horror 
Shall  sear  my  wretched  hearer’s  loving  heart, 
As  though  with  fire,  because  of  this  misfor- 
tune. 

All  think  her  dead,  she  disappears  forever 
Within  the  ashes,  gray,  of  nothingness. 

Then  each  of  us  will  quickly  turn  to  life. 

And  in  the  tumult  of  the  busy  world 
Forget  that  she  too,  though  so  for  away. 

Still  breathes  the  air  of  life  among  the  living. 

Secretary.  Dost  thou  with  utter  boldnessi 
face  the  deed  ? 

Will  not  remorse  remain  with  bitter  sting? 

Secular  Priest,  'hhou  askest  such  a ques- 
tion? We  are  firm. 

Secretary.  An  inward  dissatisfadlion  often- 
times 

Against  our  will  accompanies  an  adfion. 

Secular  Priest.  What  do  I hear?  art  thou 
become  repentant. 

Or  wilt  thou  only  test  me  if  I be 
A worthy  pupil  in  the  arts  thou  teachest  ? 

Secretary.  Never  sufficiently  do  men  re- 
flect ! 

Secular  Priest.  They  should  refledl  before 
the  deed’s  begun. 

Secretary.  ’Tis  not  too  late  before  the 
deed  is  done. 

Secular  Priest.  For  me  the  door  of  fore- 
thought is  shut  fast. 

The  time  for  that  was  when  I still  delay’d 
Within  the  Paradise  of  simple  joys  ; 

When,  bounded  by  the  garden’s  cosy  hedge, 

I grafted  trees  that  I myself  had  planted. 

And  fed  my  table  from  the  narrow  beds. 

When  still  contentment  in  the  little  house 
Supplied  a sense  of  having  wealth  unbounded, 
.\nd  when,  according  to  my  light,  I spoke 
Unto  the  congregation  from  my  heart, 

A friend  with  friends,  a father  with  his  chil- 
dren. 

And  gave  my  hand  to  aid  the  worthy  man. 
And  stopjj’d  the  bad  man  and  the  sin  he  did. 
Oh,  would  that  some  beneficent  spirit  had 
then 

Turn’d  from  my  door  thy  hesitating  steps. 
Whereto  thou,  weary,  thirsty  from  the  chase. 
Didst  come  to  knock  and  with  thy  flattering 
ways. 

Thy  wily  words,  didst  lay  a spell  upon  me  ! 
That  beauteous  day  on  which  our  friendship 
hung 

Peace  spread  her  wings  and  fled  forever  from 
me ! 


Secretary.  We  brought  thee  many  pleas- 
ures, did  we  not  ? 

Secular  Priest.  And  many  anxious  wants 
which  weight  me  down. 

I felt  my  poverty  to  see  the  rich. 

Anxiety  oppress’d  me,  for  1 lack’d  ; 

And  in  my  need  I ask’d  for  help  from  others. 
You  brought  me  aid : dearly  I pay  for  it. 

You  took  me  as  the  comrade  of  your  fortune, 
You  took  me  as  the  complice  of  your  deeds — 
Nay,  rather  should  I say  the  slave,  for  such 
You  made  the  once  free  now  abandon’d  man. 
You  gave  him  pay  forsooth,  but  yet  denied 
The  sole  reward  which  he  had  dared  to  ask. 
Secretary.  Have  faith  that  we  shall  load 
thee  down  ere  long 
With  honors,  benefices  and  estates. 

Secular  Prie.st.  Pjiit  those  are  not  the 
things  that  I expeft. 

Secretary.  And  now  what  new  demand 
hast  thou  conceiv’d? 

Secular  Priest.  You  use  me  as  a tool  de- 
void of  feelings 

Thus  once  again.  This  noble  child  ye  thrust 
Forth  from  the  living  circle  of  her  friends. 

’Tis  I must  palliate,  must  hide  the  deed. 

Yet  you  determine  and  I have  no  voice. 
Henceforth  1 ask  to  join  your  secret  conclave 
Where  frightful  deeds  are  plann’d,  where  every 
man 

Proud  of  his  strength  and  genius  bends  the 
course 

Of  monstrous  adtions  unavoidable. 

Secretary.  That  thou  so  closely  art  with 
us  allied 

Gives  thee  a new  and  potent  claim  upon  us. 
With  weighty  secrets  shalt  thou  soon  be  trusted. 
And  so  be  patient  and  control  thyself. 

Secular  Priest.  I am,  and  far  more  patient 
than  you  think. 

Long  since  I saw  the  purport  of  your  plans. 
He  only  merits  secret  consecration 
Who  through  presentiment  anticipates. 

Secretary.  What  dost  thou  guess?  What 
dost  thou  know? 

Secular  Priest.  Let  that 

Be  spared  until  we  meet  at  midnight’s  hour. 
Alas!  this  maiden’s  melancholy  fate 
Has  vanish’d  like  a brook  in  ocean’s  tide, 
When  I consider  how  ye  lift  yourselves 
In  secret  in  a mighty  party  schism. 

And  hope,  by  treacherous  wiles,  to  oust  the 
King, 

And  foist  yourselves  as  rulers  on  the  land. 

Not  you  alone,  for  others  also  strive 
In  rivalry  with  you  to  reach  your  goal. 


262 


And  so  ye  undermine  the  throne  and  State.  j 
Who  shall  be  rescued  from  the  impending  I 
fate  ? i 

Secretary.  Hush  ! Some  one  comes  ! i 
Hide  in  this  secret  closet.  j 

When  it  is  time  I’ll  summon  thee  to  enter. 


SCENE  H. 

Duke.  Secretary. 

Duke.  O baleful  light ! thou  call’st  me 
back  to  life, 

Thou  bringest  me  to  knowledge  of  the  world  j 
And  of  myself  again.  How  barren,  bare  and  I 
hollow  ! 

Lies  all  before  me  now,  and  burn’d  to  ashes!  | 

A heap  of  ruins  is  my  happiness  ! 

Secretary.  If  each  and  every  of  thy  faith- 
ful friends  i 

Who  suffer  with  thee  at  this  hour  could  bear  [ 

A portion  of  tliy  sorrows,  how  would’st  thou  | 
Not  feel  thyself  renew’d  in  strength  and  ' 
courage ! | 

Duke.  The  wound  to  love  like  love  itself  I 
remains 

Incurable,  unending  ! Now  I know 
The  terrible  disaster  which  befalls 
The  man  who  misses  his  accustom’d  weal. 

Oh,  why  did  you  allow  these  well-known  walls 
To  shine  upon  me  with  their  bravery 
Of  gold  and  color,  calling  back  the  days — 

I'he  yesterdays — of  my  complete  delight 
With  chilling  sense  of  loss?  Why  did  you  not 
Envelop  halls  and  chambers  with  black  crape. 


So  that  the  everlasting  shades  of  night, 
Without  me  as  within,  might  cast  their  gloom? 

Secretary.  Oh,  would  that  still  thy  many 
blessings  might 

In  spite  of  loss  seem  something  in  thy  sight  ! 

Duke.  A dream  embodied,  free  from  spirit 
bonds ! 

She  was  the  living  soul  that  fill’d  this  house. 
Whene’er  I wak’d  how  sweet  before  mine  eyes 
Hover’d  the  image  of  the  lovely  maiden  ! 

Here  oft  I found  a leaflet  from  her  hand, 

A soulful,  heartfelt  word  for  morning  greet- 
ing ! 

Secretary.  How  oft  the  wish  to  give  her 
father  joy 

Express’d  itself  in  fresh  melodious  verse  ! 

Duke.  The  hope  of  seeing  her  alone  re- 
liev’d 

The  weary  hours  of  slow  laborious  days  ! 

Secretary.  And  when  delay  and  hindrance 
clogg’d  the  wheels. 

With  what  impatience  hast  thou  yearn’d  for 
her. 

As  the  rash  lover  yearns  to  see  his  mistress. 

Duke.  Make  no  compare  between  the  Are 
of  youth 

Devouring  selfishly  the  thing  it  clutches 
And  that  ecstatic  glow  a father  feels 
Who,  Ail’d  with  contemplation  rapt,  rejoices 
At  all  development  of  wondrous  j)owers. 

At  all  the  giant  strides  in  culture’s  path. 

The  present  is  the  pledge  that  love  demands. 
The  future  is  the  parent’s  treasur’d  boon. 
There  lie  the  spreading  acres  of  his  hopes. 
And  there  the  ripening  harvest  of  his  joys  ! 

Secretary.  Alas  1 these  boundless  pleas- 
ures thou  hast  lost; 

This  ever  blossoming  hope  is  now  destroy’d. 

263 


Duke.  And  have  I lost  it  ? But  a moment 
since 

Its  perfeft  glory  fill’d  my  joyful  soul. 

Alas  ! ’tis  gone  ! Let  your  laments  arise. 

Let  grief  destroy  this  solid  edifice 
Which  age  too  generous  has  preserv’d  till  now  ! 
.■\ccurs’d  be  all  that’s  left  to  me  ! accurs’d  ! 
.\nd  all  that  shakes  and  totters  now  be  wel- 
come ! 

Boil  up,  ye  floods,  break  o’er  the  dykes  and 
change 

The  land  to  sea  ! Ye  raging  gulfs,  o’erwhelm 
In  dire  destrudlion  ship  and  crew  and  treas- 
ure ! 

Spread  out,  ye  war-compelling  ranks,  and  drown 
The  fields  with  gore  and  every  form  of  death ! 
Flash  forth,  ye  lightning  bolts,  across  the 
waste 

.\nd  blast  the  haughty  heads  of  solid  towers. 
Cast  stone  from  stone,  let  flames  arise  and 
scourge 

With  horrid  fury  all  the  haunts  of  men. 

That  I,  ring’d  round  by  universal  sorrow. 

May  bend  before  the  Fate  that  hounds  me  ! 

Secretary.  This  unexpedted  tragedy  so 
monstrous 

Weighs  fearfully  upon  thee,  noble  Duke ! 

Duke.  Most  suddenly  it  came,  not  unfore- 
warn’d ! 

A liappy  Fate  brought  her  from  realms  of  death, 
.\nd  in  my  arms  she  came  to  life  again. 

I saw  with  Iiasty  passing  glance  the  horror 
Which  now  confronts  me  with  its  frozen  stare. 
I should  have  punish’d  then  her  recklessness. 
Have  set  my  face  with  sternest  opposition 
Against  her  daring,  and  have  check’d  the  mad- 
ness 

Which  blindly  deem’d  itself  invulnerable. 
Immortal,  and  which  sent  her  from  the  cliff. 
Through  wood  and  stream  and  thicket  like  a 
bird. 

Secretary.  How  should  such  deeds  made 
certain  by  success 

Have  given  presentiment  of  coming  woe  ? 

Duke.  The  presage  of  these  woes  full  well 
I felt 

When  I the  last — when  I the  last  time  saw — 
Yea  ! .speak  it  out- — ^the  devastating  word 
That  builds  a hedge  of  darkness  round  thy 
way  ! 

Oh,  would  that  I had  seen  her  once  again  ! 
Perchance,  I might  have  warded  off  this  blow  ! 
I would  have  knelt  before  her,  would  have 
pray’d. 

Have  warn’d  her,  with  a father’s  faithful  warn- 
ing. 


To  spare  herself  and  me,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  future  fortune  to  attempt  no  risk. 

Though  tempted  by  the  madness  of  the  chase. 
Alas  ! this  hour  was  not  vouchsaf’d  to  me  ! 
And  now  I’ve  lost  my  precious  child  forever. 
She  is  no  more  ! Her  boldness  only  grew 
From  having  easily  escap’d  that  fall. 

I And  no  one  there  to  warn  her,  none  to  guide! 

I The  discipline  of  childhood  was  forgotten  ! 

, Whose  hands  did  I entrust  with  such  a treas- 
I ure  ? 

I The  hands  compliant,  pampering,  of  a woman  ! 

No  stringent  word  to  bend  my  daughter’s  will 
! In  ways  of  temperate  reasonableness  I 
With  freedom  uncontroll’d  she  let  her  roam 
O’er  every  field  that  offer’d  reckless  daring. 

I felt  it  oft  and  often  half  confess’d 
That  she  was  ill  watch’d  by  her  governess. 
Secretary.  Oh,  cast  not  blame  upon  that 
hapless  creature  1 

In  company  with  deathless  grief  she  wanders, 
God  knows  in  what  far  land,  now,  unconsol’d  1 
She  fled  1 for  who  could  look  thee  in  the  face 
If  conscious  that  the  least  reproach  were  due? 
Duke.  Oh,  let  me  wreak  my  wrath  on 
blameless  others 

Lest  in  despair  I tear  myself  in  pieces  1 
For  I myself  must  bear  the  blame,  though 
heavy. 

Did  I not  with  my  foolish  fond  beginnings 
Tempt  death  and  danger  on  my  darling’s 
head  ? 

It  was  my  pride  to  see  the  maiden  win 
The  mastery  of  every  undertaking. 

And  now  I pay  the  fearful  price  in  full. 

In  carriage,  in  the  saddle  should  she  shine, 

A heroine  for  guiding  foaming  steeds  1 
! Or  diving  through  the  water  did  she  seem 
A goddess  to  command  the  elements. 

And  so  she  thouglit  to  conquer  every  danger. 
Ah  me  1 instead  of  giving  preservation 
The  wont  of  danger  now  has  brought  her 
death  1 

Secretary.  The  wont  of  duty’s  grand  be- 
hests has  brought 

Death  to  the  ne’er-to-be-forgotten  maiden  1 
Duke.  Explain  thyself  1 
Secretary.  And  shall  I wake  thy  pain 
By  telling  of  the  childlike  noble  aftion  ? 

Her  aged,  first  and  highly-honored  friend 
And  teacher,  from  this  city  dwells  remote. 

In  melancholy,  pain,  misanthropy. 

’Twas  she  alone  was  able  to  console  him. 
Compassion  put  this  on  her  as  a duty  ; 

But  often  when  she  wish’d  to  visit  him 
Her  governess  denied  her.  But  she  plann’d 


264 


The  Nnfi/ral  Daughter. 


To  compass  it.  She  boldly  used  the  hours 
Devoted  to  her  morning  ride  to  dash 
With  splendid  wild  impetuosity 
And  visit  the  aged,  well-beloved  man. 

.\  single  groom  alone  was  in  the  secret. 

'I’his  time  he  must  have  put  the  saddle  on 
As  we  suspedl ; for  he  cannot  be  found. 

The  wretched  man  and  that  unhappy  woman 
Both  vanish’d  from  the  world  from  fear  of  thee. 
Duke.  Fortunate  both  ! who  nothing  have 
to  fear, 

Whose  sorrow  for  their  master’s  vanish’d  joy 
Has  lightly  chang’d  to  mere  anxiety. 

I too  have  naught  to  fear,  have  naught  to  hope. 
So  let  me  hear  the  whole  and  spare  me  not 
The  least  detail  ! My  soul  is  iron  wrought. 


SCENE  III. 

Duke.  Secretary.  Secular  Priest. 

Secretary.  Until  this  very  moment, 
honor’d  Prince, 

Have  I refrain’d  from  calling  in  a man 
Who,  also  sad,  appears  before  thee  now. 

He  is  the  priest  who  from  the  hand  of  death 
Receiv’d  thy  daughter,  and  when  hope  was  none 
Of  saving  her,  with  all  a father’s  care 
Provided  everything  that  love  could  do. 


SCENE  IV. 

Duke.  Secular  Priest. 

Secular  Priest.  How  earnestly,  exalted 
Prince,  have  I 

Cherish’d  the  wish  to  come  before  thy  presence! 
Now  it  is  gratified,  but  at  a moment  ; 

When  thou  and  I with  thee  art  bent  with  grief ! ! 

Duke.  Unwelcome  messenger,  e’en  so,  be  ' 

welcome ! t 

Thou  hast  beheld  her  last,  thy  heart  has  felt 
The  pathos  of  her  last  long  yearning  look. 

Her  last  word  hast  thou  reverently  heard. 

Her  last  sigh  hast  thou  met  with  kind  response,  i 
Oh,  tell  me,  did  she  speak?  AVhat  were  her  ! 
words  ? 

Remember’d  she  her  father?  Dost  thou  bring-  ^ 
me  I 

A heartfelt  “ farewell  ” from  her  dying  lips?  I 


Secular  Priest.  We  bid  the  unwelcome 
messenger  be  welcome 
So  long  as  he  is  silent  and  our  hearts 
Hold  room  for  hope,  for  doubting  still  hold 
room. 

Bad  tidings  spoken  are  detestable. 

Duke.  Why  dost  thou  hesitate  ? AVhat 
deeper  grief 

Can  I experience?  She  is  no  more. 

And  peace  and  silence  at  this  moment  hover 
Above  her  tomb.  Whate’er  she  may  have 
suffer’d 

Is  past  for  her  : for  me  begins.  But  speak. 
Secul.ar  Priest.  A universal  calamity  is 
death. 

Consider  thus  the  evil  which  has  come. 

And  let  the  path  by  which  she  pass’d  away 
Be  hid  in  darkness  like  the  shades  of  night. 
Not  every  one  can  tread  the  flowery  path 
That  leads  unto  the  silent  realm  of  shadows. 
With  forceful  pain  destrudlion  often  comes 
And  brings  through  pangs  of  hell  eternal 
peace. 

Duke.  She  suffer’d  much  ? 

Secular  Priest.  She  suffer’d  much,  not 
long. 

Duke.  There  was  a moment  while  my 
darling  suffer’d, 

A moment  that  she  cried  in  vain  for  aid  ! 

And  I,  where  was  I then  ? What  enterprise, 
AVdiat  scene  of  pleasure  chain’d  me  at  the 
time  ? 

Did  nothing  presage  what  a woful  thing 
Was  come  to  rend  in  fragments  all  my  life? 
Her  cry  I heard  not,  and  I felt  no  sign 
Of  that  misfortune  struck  so  surely  home. 
Far-working  holy  sympathy’s  foreboding 
Is  but  a fable.  Sensitive  and  firm. 

Shut  in  by  his  environment,  man  feels 
The  present  good  or  else  the  pre.sent  evil ; 

And  love  itself  is  deaf  to  distant  sounds. 
Secular  Priest.  The  very  utmost  com- 
fort speech  can  give 
I feel  how  little  can  avail  thee  now. 

Duke.  A word  can  wound  more  readily 
than  heal  ; 

.\nd  grief,  renew’d,  forever  strives  in  vain 
To  bring  again  the  days  of  vanish’d  joy. 

And  was  there  then  no  skill,  no  art  availing 
To  call  the  fleeting  spirit  back  to  life? 

What  was  thy  first  expedient?  Oh,  tell  me. 
What  didst  thou  do  to  save  her?  Thou  didst 
not 

Leave  any  means  untried  ! 

Secular  Priest.  Alas!  Too  late 

When  I had  found  her  was  it  to  devise. 


265 


Duke.  Then  if  forever  I must  mourn  the 
loss 

Of  her  young  life’s  delightful  power 
Let  me  deceive  my  grief  with  deeper  grief, 

Let  me  immortalize  her  dear  remains  ! 

Come,  let  us  visit  her  ! AVhere  does  she  lie? 
Secular  Priest.  A worthy  chapel  holds 
the  maiden’s  tomb. 

Kept  consecrate  and  silent ! From  the  altar  j 
Across  the  iron  bars  I see  the  spot ; 

And  while  I live  my  prayers  for  her  shall  rise. 
Duke.  Oh,  come  and  lead  me  thither! 
AVith  us  twain 

Shall  go  the  wisest  of  all  wise  physicians. 

Her  beauteous  body  we  will  snatch  perforce 
Before  corruption  work.  AA'ith  choicest  drugs 
AA'  e will  pre.serve  the  treasure  of  her  body  ; 

And  of  the  atoms  which  erewhile  were  join’d 
In  that  incomparable,  priceless  form. 

None  shall  return  unto  the  dust  again. 

Secular  Priest.  AAdiat  can  I say?  Must  I 
confess  the  whole  ? 

Thou  canst  not  go  ! Alas  ! the  form  distorted. 
No  stranger  could  behold  it  without  horror  ! 
And  in  a father’s  eyes — it  could  not  be  ! 

No,  God  forbid  ! thou  must  not  look  ujion  her. 
Duke.  AA'hat  new  device  of  torment  threat- 
ens me? 

Secular  Priest.  Oh,  let  me  hold  my 
peace,  that  words  of  mine 
May  not  abuse  remembrance  of  the  lost ! 

Let  me  conceal  the  appalling  sight  of  her 
Dragg’d  through  the  thicket,  through  the 
mangling  rocks. 

Disabled  and  disfigur’d  and  distorted. 

Bleeding  and  crush’d,  unrecognizable, 

And  lifeless,  hanging  from  my  arm.  And  I 
AAhth  flooding  tears — I bless’d  the  solemn  hour 
AA’hen  I renounc’d  a father’s  holy  hope. 

Duke.  Thou  hast  not  been  a father.  Thou 
art  one 

Of  those  self-seeking,  hard,  self-centred  men 
AVho  let  their  narrow  lives  unfruitful  run. 

To  end  in  gloom.  So  get  thee  gone  ! I hate 
The  very  sight  of  thee  ! 

Secular  Priest.  I knew  ’twas  so. 

AV'ho  could  forgive  the  bringer  of  such  tidings? 

[ Turns  to  go. 

Di'ke.  Forgive  me  and  remain  I Hast 
ever  seen 

A pidlure  limn’d  by  art’s  consummate  skill 
That  once  and  once  again  thy  recolledtion 
Has  striven  to  catch  in  all  its  wondrous  beauty  ? 
Oh,  if  thou  hadst,  then  hadst  thou  surely  never 
So  ruthlessly  destroy’d  the  image  which,  for  me. 
Built  with  its  thousand  lines  of  loveliness. 


AA'as  all  the  world  of  fortune  and  of  joy, — 
And  pleasure  in  remembrance  so  dispell’d  ! 
Secular  Priest.  AVhat  .should  I do? 
Condudl  thee  to  the  tomb 
Bedew’d  with  countless  tears  from  strangers’ 
eyes 

Before  I laid  the  rotting  corpse  away 
To  fall  in  mouldering  peaceful  dissolution  I 
Duke.  Silence!  unfeeling  man  ! thou  only 
add’st 

New  torments  to  the  pain  thou  think’st  to 
soothe. 

Ah,  woe  ! the  elements,  no  longer  rul’d 
By  that  fair  spirit  of  order,  now  destroy 
In  noiseless  conflidt  what  was  godlike  once. 

If  o’er  her  growth  and  swift  development 
Paternal  fancy  hover’d,  full  of  care. 

So  now  before  the  insistence  of  despair 
The  joy  of  life  is  turn’d  to  dust  and  ashes. 
Secular  Priest.  AVhat  light  and  air  have 
made  in  fleeting  form 
Is  kept  for  long  within  the  sealed  tomb. 

Duke.  The  custom  of  the  ancients  was  a 
wise  one : 

That  when  the  adlive  spirit  pass’d  away 
The  agency  of  purifying  fire 
Should  solve  the  long  and  earnest  work  of 
nature. 

Completed  in  the  noble  human  form. 

And  when  the  flames  their  ruddy  billows  toss’d 
Rolling  to  heaven  and  ’mid  the  clouds  was  seen 
The  eagle’s  mighty  wing  significant. 

Then  tears  were  dried  and  friends  forsaken 
gaz’d 

AA’ith  vision  clarified  up  to  the  realms 
AA’here  sat  the  new-crown’d  god  upon  Olympos. 
Oh,  gather  for  me  in  a costly  urn 
The  sad  remains  of  flesh  consum’d  to  ashes. 
So  that  the  yearning  arms  outstretch’d  in  vain 
May  clasp  reality,  that  I may  press 
Against  my  breast  so  full  of  emptiness 
The  painfulest  possession  of  my  life  ! 

Secular  Priest.  Ever  more  bitter  grief 
becomes  by  grieving. 

Duke.  By  grieving  grief  at  last  becomes 
enjoyment. 

Oh,  would  that  wandering  ever  on  and  on 
I,  laden  with  my  melancholy  burden 
Of  shrunken  ashes,  might  with  feeble  footsteps 
i In  expiation  come  where  last  I saw  her. 

I There  lay  she  dead  within  my  arms,  and  there 
I Deceiv’d  I saw  her  come  to  life  again. 

I thought  I clasjVd  her,  thought  I held  her  fast. 
But  now  she  is  forever  torn  from  me. 

But  there  will  I immortalize  my  sorrow. 

A tribute  to  her  rescue  did  I vow. 


266 


Enraptur’d  by  the  marvel  of  my  dream. 

E’en  now  the  gardener’s  skilful  hand  is  making 
Through  wood  and  fell  a labyrinth  of  paths, 
Enclosing  round  about  the  sacred  spot 
^Vhere  to  his  heart  my  royal  master  press’d 
My  daughter,  and  her  princely  birth  confess’d. 
Where  henceforth  symmetry  and  just  proportion 
Would  grace  the  spot  which  brought  me  hap- 
piness. 

There  not  a hand  shall  labor  ! Half  completed 
Tliis  plan  shall  be  an  emblem  of  my  fate. 

But  the  memorial — that  I still  shall  found. 
Heap’d  up  of  unhewn  bowlders,  orderless. 
There  will  I wander,  there  in  silence  dwell 
Till  Death  at  last  shall  bring  desir’d  relief. 

Oh,  let  me  there,  like  stone,  dream  life  away. 
Until  the  slender  trace  of  former  care 
Shall  vanish  from  this  melancholy  desert. 

In  freedom  shall  the  meadow  green  with  grass 
And  bough  with  bough  in  wildness  inter- 
twine. 

The  bending  birch’s  head  shall  sweep  the 
ground. 

The  tender  saplings  wax  to  mighty  trees, 

And  moss  shall  clothe  around  the  slippery 
stems. 

Time  passes  without  note:  for  she  is  gone 
By  whose  development  I mark’d  the  years. 
Secular  Priest.  And  will  that  man  whose 
pleasure  oft  has  been 
To  mingle  in  the  beneficent  whirl  of  life 
Allow  himself  to  shun  the  busy  world 
And  choose  the  monotony  of  loneliness. 
Because  a burden  unendurable 
Has  roll’d  iqion  him  with  its  threatening  doom  ? 
Go  forth  ! with  eagle  swiftness  through  the 
land, 

Through  foreign  kingdoms,  that  before  thy 
mind 

The  world  and  all  its  glories  may  arise. 

Duke.  What  have  1 in  the  world  to  look 
for  now, 

When  she  no  longer  meets  my  eye  who  was 
The  only  objedt  that  I cared  to  see? 

Shall  stream  and  mountain,  vale  and  wood  and 
fell. 

In  varied  panorama  pass  before  me, 

And  only  wake  the  bitter  need  I feel 
To  hold  once  more  the  form  so  dearlv  lov’d? 
From  mountain-to])  down  to  the  ocean  wide 
What  would  the  wealth  of  nature  be  to  me — 
Recalling  me  to  poverty  and  loss? 

Secular  Priest.  But  novel  wealth  lies 
close  before  thy  hand  ! 

Duke.  ’Tis  through  the  eye  undimm’d  of 
youth  alone 


That  things  familiar  vivified  can  stir  us ; 
-When  the  enthusiasm  long  despis’d 
Comes  to  us  pleasantly  from  childish  lips. 

And  so  I plann’d  to  show  her  all  the  realm. 
The  peopled  plains,  the  forest  depths,  the 
rivers. 

And  all  the  boundless  majesty  of  ocean. 

So  that  the  intoxication  of  her  gaze 
When  turn’d  upon  the  infinite  of  space 
Should  fill  my  soul  with  infinite  of  love  ! 
Secular  Priest.  If  thou,  exalted  Prince, 
didst  not  aspire 

To  spend  the  glorious  days  of  fullest  life 
In  contemplation,  if  adlivity 
In  doing  for  unnumber’d  multitudes 
Gave  thee  the  precedent  unto  the  throne 
For  noble  service  in  the  common  good. 
Instead  of  accident  of  kingly  birth. 

Thus  in  the  name  of  all  I summon  thee : 

Take  courage  ! Let  the  melancholy  hours 
Which  darken  thy  horizon  be,  for  others. 
Through  consolation,  counsel,  aid,  no  less 
Than  for  thyself,  bright  hours  of  happiness. 
Duke.  How  shallow  and  disgusting  such  a 
life. 

Where  every  motion,  every  impulse  brings 
Ever  new  need  of  motion,  need  of  impulse. 
And  no  desir’d  result  at  last  rewards. 

'Phat  did  I see  in  her  alone : for  her 
I strove  and  won  with  pleasure  keen 
That  I might  build  a realm  of  pleasing  for- 
tune. 

So  I was  genial,  was  a friend  to  all, 

Obliging,  quick,  in  deed  and  counsel  lavish. 
“It  is  the  father  in  me  that  they  love,’’ 

I said;  “they  thank  the  father,  and,  in  time, 
The  daughter  will  they  welcome  as  their 
friend.’’ 

Secular  Priest.  No  time  is  left  for  senti- 
mental musings  ! 

Exalted  Prince,  quite  different  thoughts  de- 
mand thee. 

Shall  I the  secret  hazard  ? I the  humblest 
Among  thy  servitors?  The  eager  glances 
Of  all  are  turn’d  to  thee,  these  dubious  days. 
Thy  solid  worth,  thy  strength  undeviating. 
Duke.  The  happy  man  alone  feels  worth 
and  strength  ! 

Secular  Priest.  The  pain  intense  of  woes 
intolerable 

Are  bail  unto  the  moment  for  vast  meaning. 

I Let  me  have  pardon  if  I boldly  wage 
, To  speak  the  confidential  tidings  out ! 

I How  from  below  fermenting  passions  seethe  ! 

' How  ineffedlual  the  force  above  ! 

I Not  every  one  has  sight  to  see  but  thou 


267 


More  than  the  multitude  in  which  I move. 

Oh,  do  not  falter  now  the  storm  draws  nigh, 
But  seize  the  helm  and  guide  the  weltering 
ship 

For  the  advantage  of  thy  fatherland. 

Forget  thy  grief:  else  will  a thousand  fathers 
Like  thee  tlieir  children  mourn,  a thousand 
children 

Call  vainly  for  their  fathers,  and  the  cries 
Of  mourning  mothers  echo  horribly 
Against  the  pitiless  hollow  jjrison  walls. 

Oh,  bring  an  offering  of  thy  grief  and  pain 
Unto  the  altar  of  the  common  weal. 

And  all  whom  thou  wilt  rescue  from  this 
doom 

Thou  shalt  in  compensation  win  as  children. 
Duke.  From  gloomy  corners  do  not  raise 
again 

The  swarm  opaque  of  spedfres  to  oppress  me. 
Which  through  my  daughter’s  wonder-working 
power 

Were  often  bann’d  and  readily  put  to  flight. 
That  all-compelling  might  of  love  is  vanish’d 
^Vhich  sang  unto  my  soul  in  pleasant  dreams. 
Now  heavy  on  me  weighs  with  solid  pressure 
The  adtual  present,  threatening  to  crush  me. 
Away  ! away  ! Take  me  from  out  the  world  ! 


And  if  the  robe  in  which  thou  movest  lie  not, 
Then  lead  me  to  the  place  where  patience 
dwells, — 

Unto  the  monastery,  and  leave  me  there 
In  universal  silence,  silent,  bowed. 

To  sink,  a weary  mortal,  to  the  vault. 

Secular  Priest.  Me  scarcely  it  becomes 
to  recommend 

The  world  to  thee : yet  boldly  will  I speak  ! 
Not  in  the  grave  nor  yet  upon  the  grave 
The  noble  man  will  waste  his  wealth  of  long- 
ing. 

He  turns  unto  himself,  and  full  of  wonder 
He  finds  the  lost  again  within  his  heart. 

Duke.  The  fadl  that  such  a treasure  still 
remains 

When  far  and  farther  flies  the  treasure  lost, 
'I'hat  is  the  torment  which  the  parted  member 
Forever  torn  away  must  still  renew 
Upon  the  pang-wrench’d,  ]ialpitating  body. 
Dismember’d  life  who  can  unite  again? 
Annihilated!  who  rebuild? 

Secular  Priest.  The  spirit ! 

'I'he  s])irit  of  man  for  whom  is  nothing  lost 
Which  once  was  priz’d  and  held  in  firm  pos- 
session. 

So  lives  Eugenie  still,  within  thy  mind. 


268 


Which  she  erewhile  sustain’d,  in  which  she 
stirr’d 

Perception  of  the  wondrous  works  of  Nature. 
Still  as  a lofty  pattern  doth  she  work, 
Protedling  thee  from  common  things  and  bad 
Which,  every  hour,  may  meet  thee.  And  the 
glory 

Refledled  from  her  noble  truth  will  banish 
The  empty  falsehood  that  would  sting  thee. 

So  through  her  power  feel  that  thy  strength  is 
doubled. 

And  give  her  back  a life  invulnerable 
Which  can  be  shatter’d  by  no  earthly  force. 

Duke.  Nay,  let  some  intricate  net  of  death 
encoil  me 


With  gloomy  glowering  web  of  woven  dreams. 
And,  O thou  image,  perfedl  in  thy  beauty. 
Remain  for  me  forever  young  and  change- 
less ! 

Around  me  let  the  pure  light  of  thine  eyes 
Forever  shine!  Where’er  my  steps  may 
wander 

Do  thou  go  with  me,  pointing  out  the  way 
Amid  the  thorny  labyrinth  of  earth  ! 

Thou  art  no  figment  of  a dream  ! I see  thee ! 
Just  as  thou  wast,  art  thou.  Almighty  God 
Conceiv’d  thee  perfedl,  perfedf  wast  thou 
made. 

Thou  art  a portion  of  the  Infinite, 

The  Endless,  and  thou  art  forever  mine. 


i 


269 


ACT 


SCENE  I. — Fark  at  the  port.  On  one  side 

a palace,  on  the  other  a church;  in  the 
background  a rma  of  trees  through  which 
the  poet  is  seen  below.  Eugenie,  enveloped 
in  a veil,  seated  on  a bench  in  the  back- 
ground, with  face  turned  to  the  sea. 

Governess.  Counsellor.  In  the  foreground. 

Governess.  A wretched  business  unavoid- 
ably 

Compels  me  from  the  Kingdom’s  central  heart, 
d'he  distridt  of  the  capital,  to  seek 
The  limits  of  the  solid  land,  this  haven. 

With  strenuous  care  forever  at  my  heels 
And  dubious  distance  ever  beckoning  on. 

How  would  the  counsel  and  the  sympathy 
Of  some  strong  man  reliable  and  noble 
Shine  on  me  as  a blessed  guiding  star  ! 

Forgive  me,  therefore,  if  I come  to  thee 
And  bring  this  charter  which  shall  justify 


IV. 


The  formidable  purpose  that  I own  ! 

For  I have  heard  thy  name  in  hearty  praise 
Once  in  the  halls  where  righteous  judgment  sways 
As  worthy  aid,  but  now  as  perfedl  judge. 
Counsellor.  ( ll7io  meantime  thoughtfully 
contemplates  the  paper.)  Not  my  desert 
but  my  endeavor  won 

Perchance  my  meed  of  praise.  But  strange  it 
seems 

That  him  whom  thou  hast  righteous  call’d  and 
noble. 

Thou  should’st  demand  in  aid,  and  mock  his  eyes 
With  such  a paper  which  can  only  fill 
His  bosom  with  disgust  and  sheer  abhorrence. 
Of  right,  of  judgment,  let  no  word  be  spoken. 
This  deed  is  violence,  is  tyranny! 

E’en  if  the  treatment  wise  and  skilful  be  ! 

A child  of  noble  birth  is  given  over 

For  death  or  life — Tspeak  not  too  severely? — 

Is  given  over  to  thy  wilt  alone. 


270 


All,  be  they  officers,  civilians,  soldiers. 

Are  bidden  to  protedl  thee,  and  to  do 
To  her  whate’er  thy  word  as  law  may  say. 

[ Gives  back  the  paper. 
Governess.  Here  show  thy  wisdom  as  a 
righteous  umpire. 

Let  not  this  paper  bring  complaint  alone  ! 

To  me,  the  deeply  blamed,  oh,  lend  an  ear! 
Consider  favorably  my  proposition  ! 

Of  noble  blood  the  peerless  maiden  sprang. 
With  every  gift,  with  every  virtue  grac’d 
By  Nature  as  inalienable  right. 

E’en  though  the  law  denies  her  other 
And  now  has  banish’d  her.  ’Tis  I must  lead 
her 

Forth  from  the  circle  of  her  friends  and  hence 
Go  with  her  as  her  guardian  to  the  islands. 
Counsellor.  To  certain  death  she  goes  : 
where  heated  vapors 
With  slow  insinuating  poison  work. 

There  must  this  flower  of  heaven  quickly 
wither. 

The  color  mantling  on  her  cheek  must  fade  ! 
The  form  must  disappear  which  yearning  eyes 
Would  ever  wish  to  keep  preserv’d  from  ill. 
Governess.  Before  thou  judgest,  listen  to 
the  end. 

The  girl  is  innocent  (what  need  of  proof?) 
Yet  is  the  cause  of  evils  numberless. 

An  angry  God  between  two  parties  plac’d  her 
Like  Discord’s  apple,  and  they  now  contend. 
Forever  separated  on  the  question. 

The  one  would  see  her  rais’d  to  highest  sta- 
tion. 

The  other  strives  to  push  her  from  the  ground. 
Both  were  of  stout  resolve.  A labyrinth 
Of  cunning,  weird  devices  hedg’d  her  fate. 
Plot  cross’d  with  counterplot  and  end  was  none 
Until  impatient  passion  brought  a crisis. 
Precipitating  moments  big  with  doom. 
Dissimulation  then  forgot  its  bounds. 

And  violence  fraught  with  peril  to  the  State 
Broke  forth  in  all  its  threatening  fury. 

And  now  to  keep  the  guilty  from  their  guilt. 
And  check  them,  a decree  divine  is  made 
That  strikes  my  charge,  the  innocent  occasion 
Of  all  the  coil,  and  crushes  me  with  her. 
Counsellor.  The  instrument  I blame  not, 
scarce  can  judge 

Those  powers  that  work  with  such  high  hand. 
Alas  ! 

They  also  are  the  slaves  of  tyrant  fate 
And  rarely  a6l  from  free  deliberation. 
Solicitude  and  fear  of  greater  evils 
Ofttimes  compel  the  monarch  into  deeds 
Which  are  unjust  and  yet  must  needs  be  done. 


j Complete  thy  necessary  task  ! Begone 

Out  of  the  narrow  boundaries  of  my  Eden. 

‘ Governess.  ’Tis  that  I seek,  and  thither 

, turn  my  steps. 

In  hope  to  find  relief.  Thou’ It  not  repulse 

i me ! 

' I long  have  tried  to  draw  entrancing  pidlures 

Before  the  worthy  maiden  of  the  pure  de- 
lights 

Which  might  await  her  in  the  calm  content- 
ment 

Within  the  circles  of  the  burgher  classes. 

If  she  would  but  renounce  her  high  ambition 

And  claim  the  safeguard  of  an  honest  hus- 
band. 

Would  turn  her  eyes  from  sweet  forbidden  re- 
gions 

Where  danger,  banishment  and  death  surround 
her 

To  look  with  favor  on  a simple  home. 

Then  all  were  solv’d,  my  bitter  task  fulfill’d. 

And  I,  rejoicing  in  my  fatherland. 

Releas’d  from  care  could  still  see  peaceful 
hours. 

Counsellor.  A web  of  wondrous  circum- 
stance thou  showest. 

Governess.  I show  it  to  a wise  and  resolute 
man . 

Counsellor.  A suitor  to  thy  mind  could 
win  the  maid  ? 

Governess.  She  should  be  his  and  richly- 
dower’d  withal. 

Counsellor.  Who  could  so  rashly  make  a 
grave  decision  ? 

Governess.  With  sudden  purpose  inclina- 
tion adls. 

CouNSELi.OR.  To  link  one’s  life  with  fate 
unknown  were  madness. 

Governess.  One  glance  at  her  is  vr-arrant 
of  her  worth. 

Counsellor.  The  wife’s  foes  are  the  foes 
of  husband  also. 

Governess.  When  she  is  wed  comes  recon- 
ciliation. 

Counsellor.  And  will  her  husband  know 
the  maiden’s  secret? 

Governess.  If  he  is  trusty,  trust  will  be 
bestow’d. 

CouNSELi.OR.  And  will  she  freely  sandlion 
such  alliance? 

Governess.  A dread  alternative  will  weight 
her  choice. 

Counsellor.  Is  it  fair  to  woo  in  such  e.x- 
tremity  ? 

Governess.  He  who  would  rescue  must 
not  reason  fine. 


271 


Counsellor.  Pray,  what  before  all  else 
dost  thou  demand? 

Governess.  That  thy  resolve  shall  be  con- 
firm’d at  once. 

Counsellor.  And  is  the  peril  of  thy  fate 
so  pressing  ? 

Governess.  The  busy  sailors  yonder  spur 
the  voyage. 

Counsellor.  Hast  thou  advised  her  yet 
of  such  a step  ? 

G(.)Verness.  I hinted  thus  with  quick  sig- 
nificance. 

Counsellor.  And  did  she  not,  indignant, 
spurn  the  thought  ? 

Governess.  Her  former  fortune  then  was 
all  too  nigh. 

Counsellor.  The  glorious  fancies,  will  they 
ever  fade  ? 

Governess.  The  awful  ocean  puts  them  all 
to  flight. 

Counsellor.  She  hates  to  leave  lier  father- 
land  forever? 

Governess.  She  hates  to  leave  it,  and  to 
me  ’tis  death. 

Thou,  noble  sir,  by  happy  fortune  found. 

Oh,  let  us  not  exchange  uncertain  words. 

Thy  heart  is  young  and  in  it  dwells  that  virtue 
That  needs  bright  faith  and  uncondition’d  love 
For  the  accomplishment  of  treasur’d  deeds. 

In  sooth  a splendid  circle  hems  thee  round 
Of  men  like  thee — I would  not  say  of  equals. 
Oh,  look  around  thee  ! Look  into  thy  heart 
.\nd  look  into  the  hearts  of  all  thy  friends  ! 
.•\nd  if  thou  find’st  an  overflowing  measure 
Of  love,  and  charity  and  strength  and  courage. 
Then  let  the  most  deserving  take  this  jewel 
And  find  the  blessing  that  shall  be  his  portion. 

Counsellor.  I know,  I feel  thy  dubious 
situation. 

I cannot  with  myself  discreetly  balance, 

As  wisdom  would  demand,  before  I choose. 
Let  me  converse  with  her. 

[ The  Governess  retires  towards  Eugenie. 

What  must  be  done 

’Tis  fated  will  be  done.  In  commonest  things 
Volition,  choice  determine  much.  The  highest 
That  comes  to  us  of  good,  who  knows  its 
source? 


SCENE  II. 

Eugenie.  Counsellor. 

Counsellor.  E’en  as  thou  comest  to  me, 
honor’d  lady, 

I almost  doubt  if  they  have  told  me  truly. 


Thou  art  unhappy,  say  they,  yet  thou  bringest 
Where’er  thou  art  prosperity  and  fortune. 
Eugenie.  If  I o’erwhelm’d  in  tribulation 
find 

The  first  to  whom  I turn  my  face  and  voice. 
So  kind  and  noble,  as  thou  seem’st  to  me. 
Then  will  my  sorrow  disappear,  I hope. 

Counsellor.  If  on  a man  of  wide  ex- 
perience 

A lot  like  thine  should  fall,  ’twere  pitiful. 

But  grief  of  youth  when  first  oppress’d  how 
sorely 

It  calls  for  sympathy  and  love’s  protedlion. 
Eugenie.  Thus  but  a little  time  ago  I 
came 

Up  from  the  night  of  death  to  light  of  day. 

I knew  not  what  befell,  what  accident 
Had  hurl’d  me  headlong  from  the  dizzy  cliff. 
Then  suddenly  I rose,  I recogniz’d 
The  lovely  world  again.  I saw  the  leech 
Struggling  to  stir  the  dying  flames  again ; 
Found  in  my  father’s  loving  glance,  his  voice. 
My  life  again.  And  now  a second  time 
I waken  from  a more  disastrous  fall. 

Unknown  and  shadowy  is  the  scene  around 
me ; 

Strange  to  me  are  the  faces  of  the  men  ; 

Thy  gentleness  itself  is  like  a dream. 

Counsellor.  If  strangers  feel  for  our  ad- 
versity 

Then  are  they  nearer  to  us  than  our  nearest. 
Who  often  look  upon  our  grief  with  coldness. 
From  very  carelessness  of  wonted  sight. 

Thy  case  is  perilous,  but  who  can  say 
If  yet  there  be  not  chance  of  safety  for  thee? 
Eugenie.  No  answer  can  I make.  Un- 
known to  me 

The  powers  are  which  have  brought  about  my 
exile. 

The  woman  whom  thou  spokest  with  knows 
well 

I suffer  from  the  madden’d  deeds  of  others. 
Counsellor.  Although  superior  power  with 
strenuous  blow 

Has  stricken  hard  thy  fault  so  innocent. 

Thy  error  made  so  by  an  accident. 

No  less  respedl  remains — and  dawning  love. 
Eugenie.  The  knowledge  that  my  heart  is 
pure  within 

Makes  strange  the  consequence  of  little  errors. 
Counsellor.  ’Tis  sport  to  stumble  on  the 
level  ground  ; 

A single  slip  hurls  from  the  precipice. 

Eugenie.  Upon  those  heights  I wander’d 
I full  of  joy  ; 

I Excess  of  rapture  caus’d  my  foot  to  fail. 


272 


The  coming  fortune  I anticipated  ; 

My  hands  already  grasp’d  the  precious  pledge. 

A single  moment  and  a little  patience, 

And,  as  I fondly  thought,  the  whole  was  mine. 
But  rash  desire  o’erwhelm’d  me.  Swift  temp-  j 
tation 

Made  havoc  with  my  resolution.  Was  that  it? 

I saw,  I told  what  was  forbidden  me 
To  see,  to  tell.  Is  such  a trifling  fault 
So  harshly  punish’d?  Does  a lightly-given 
Injundfion,  seeming  like  a jocular  test. 
Relentlessly  condemn  the  breaker  of  it  ? 

Oh,  then  ’tis  true  what  ancient  legends  tell. 
Once  deem’d  incredible.  The  momentary. 
Thoughtless  enjoyment  of  the  apple  brought 
Unending  guilt  and  sorrow  on  the  world. 

Thus  also  to  my  care  a key  was  trusted. 
Forbidden  treasures  did  I dare  unlock, 

And  I unlock’d  the  entrance  to  my  tomb. 
Counsellor.  Thou  canst  not  find  the  evil’s 
primal  source. 

And  were  it  found  it  still  would  flow  forever. 
Eugenie.  In  trifling  faults  I seek  it. 
impute 

To  idle  fancy  blame  for  such  disaster  ; 

But  higher,  higher  let  suspicion  rest. 

The  twain -to  whom  I owed  my  life’s  complete- 
ness. 

Those  glorious  men,  apparently  were  friends. 
But  now  the  discord  of  unstable  parties 
Which  long  had  coil’d  in  dusky  hiding-places 
Perchance  is  breaking  forth  in  open  feud. 

And  what  surrounded  me  as  fear  and  care 
Has  reach’d  its  crisis,  while  it  crushes  me 
And  threats  annihilation  to  the  world. 

C0UN.SELLOR.  I pity  thee.  Destruction  of 
a world 

d’hou  prophesiest  since  thy  grief  is  sore. 

Did  not  the  earth  seem  fortunate  and  joyful 
When,  as  a happy  child,  thou  play’dst  ’mid 
flowers  ? 

Eugenie.  The  fortune  of  the  earth  who 
ever  saw 

Bedeck’d  in  more  attractive  hues  than  I? 

Ah  ! wliat  magnificence,  what  purity. 

What  fulness,  fill’d  my  life  ! The  satisfaction 
Of  every  human  want  seem’d  but  a tithe 
Of  all  the  riches  squander’d  for  my  ]fleasure. 
And  who  provided  me  this  Paradise? 

A loving  father,  wlio,  negleCting  naught 
Of  least  or  greatest,  prodigally  pour’d 
Bewildering  wealth  of  treasures  in  my  hands. 
And  form’d  me,  body  and  mind  alike,  to  carry 
The  weight  of  such  responsibility. 

If  my  surroundings  seem’d  effeminate. 

And  comfort  pour’d  its  subtile  poison  round. 


I Then  knightly  sports  invited  me  away 
To  fight  with  danger  on  the  mettlesome  steed. 
Ofttimes  I yearn’d  to  visit  far  horizons 
To  view  the  bounds  of  countries  new  and 
strange. 

And  this  my  noble  father  promis’d  me. 

He  promis’d  me  to  take  me  o’er  the  sea. 

He  hop’d  to  join  in  loving  sympathy 
In  my  first  rapture  in  the  infinite. 

And  here  I stand  alone  and  gaze  far  out. 

And  closer  seems  the  world  to  hedge  me  in. 

0 God  ! how  limited  are  earth  and  heaven 
'I'o  human  hearts  left  wholly  to  themselves. 

Counsellor.  Thou  hapless  one ! How 
like  a meteor 

With  fell  destruCIion  in  its  train 
Thou  sweepest  down  upon  me  from  on  high. 
Disturbing  all  the  current  of  my  life  ! 

The  joy  which  in  the  boundless  sea  I took 
Henceforth  is  turn’d  to  pain  by  thee.  When 
Phoebus 

Prepares  to  couch  upon  his  fiery  pyre 
I And  every  eye  is  soften’d  with  delight, 

^ My  face  will  then  be  turn’d  away,  and  tears 
Will  flow  in  sorrow  for  thee  and  thy  fate. 

Far  on  the  rim  of  night-surrounded  ocean 

1 see  thy  path  beset  by  want  and  sorrow  ! 
Depriv’d  of  all  thy  wonted  joys  and  comforts. 
Afflicted  hopelessly  with  trials  new  ! 

The  glowing  arrows  of  the  sun  are  pour’d 
Upon  a land  scarce  sever’d  from  the  tide ; 

'I'he  pestilence  of  poisonous  dampness  born 
Hovers  in  murky  vapors  o’er  the  lowlands. 

I see  thee  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
Languid  and  pale,  fading  from  day  to  day. 
Must  she  who  stands  before  me  fair  and  bloom- 

... 

So  prematurely  die  a living  death? 

Eugenie.  'Fhou  callest  shapes  of  horror  up 
before  me. 

There,  there  they  banish  me?  To  yonder 
land 

From  childhood  painted  in  the  gloomiest 
colors, 

I The  very  hiding-place  of  hell  on  earth  : 

Where  ’mid  foul  swamps  the  serpent  and  the 
tiger, 

Through  reeds  and  tangled  thorn-brakes  lurk- 
ing, crawl  ; 

Where  swarms  of  inseCls  arm’d  with  cruel 
stings 

Like  living  clouds  surround  the  wanderer  ; 
Where  every  wind-breath,  weighted  with  dis- 
comfort 

And  deadly,  .shortens  life  by  precious  hours. 

I thought  to  ask  thee ; now  thou  seest,  beg 


273 


With  importunity  the  liapless  maid  : 

Thou  caust,  thou  wilt  avert  this  fate  from  me. 
Counsellor.  A talisman  of  frightful  po- 
tency 

The  woman  who  hath  brought  thee  hither 
holds. 

Eugenie.  What  use  are  law  and  order  if 
they  fail 

To  shelter  childhood  from  the  crafts  of  crime? 
^Vho  then  are  you,  who  with  your  empty  pride 
In  justice  boast  of  quelling  lawlessness? 

Counsellor.  In  narrow  circles  lies  our 
jurisdidlion  ; 

.\nd  all  the  weight  of  law  that  we  can  wield 
Rules  the  unstable  class  of  humble  life. 

The  varied  deeds  that  pass  in  higher  places, 
High-handed  deeds  that  give  life  or  that  kill. 
Accomplish’d  without  counsel,  without  verdidl, 
.\re  measur’d  by  another  measure,  punish’d. 
Perchance,  according  to  another  standard. 
Remaining  ever  like  a dubious  riddle. 

Eugenie.  And  is  that  all?  Hast  thou  no 
more  to  say. 

To  tell  me? 

Counsellor.  Nothing. 

Eugenie.  I believe  thee  not ; 

I do  not  dare  believe  ! 

Counsellor.  Let  me  depart. 

Must  I appear  a weak,  a lackwit  coward  ? 
Bewail  and  pity  ? Shall  I not  devise 
Some  daring  stroke  that  shall  secure  thy  rescue? 
Yet  would  not  in  this  very  boldness  lurk 
I'he  poignant  danger  that  thou  mightest  hope 
I'oo  much  from  me  ? that  if  my  plan  should  fail 
I should  apjiear  to  thee  a wretched  bungler  ? 


Eugenie.  I will  not  let  thee  go  whom  for- 
tune sends — 

My  hajipy  fortune  of  the  olden  days 
W'hich  from  my  youth  up  watch’d  and  guarded 
me. 

And  now,  when  angry  storms  are  raging,  sends 
A noble  substitute  to  take  her  place. 

Shall  I not  see  and  feel  the  sympathy 
Thou  takest  in  me  and  my  fate?  I stand 
Not  without  influence  here.  'Fhou  thinkest, 
plan  nest- — 

The  wide  domain  of  law’s  exjierience 
Will  surely  offer  some  resource  to  save  me. 

Not  yet  is  all  hope  lost.  Oh,  yes,  thou  seekest 
Some  means  of  rescue — hast  already  found  it. 
I know  it,  read  it  jilainly  in  thy  face. 

Thy  earnest,  friendly,  melancholy  face. 

Turn  not  away  from  me.  Oh,  speak  the  word, 
'I'he  earnest  glorious  word  that  brings  me 
comfort  ! 

Counsellor.  Thus,  full  of  confidence, 
the  sorely  ill 

Seeks  the  physician,  begging  for  relief, 

For  help  against  the  threat  of  darkening  days. 
'Phe  skilful  man  appears  to  him  a god. 

Yet  ah  ! a bitter,  unendurable  means 
Is  offer’d  of  relief.  Alas  ! must  hope 
(live  way,  must  mutilation’s  gruesortre  horror 
Cause  lo.ss  instead  of  healing  ? must  it  be  ? 
Thou  wilt  be  rescu’d  and  thou  canst  be  rescu’d. 
But  not  restor’d.  Thy  past  is  gone  forever. 
'Phe  future  that  may  wait  thee,  canst  thou  bear 
it  ? 

Eugenie.  P'or  rescue  from  the  hateful 
power  of  death. 


274 


The  Natural  JJaiarhter. 


For  quickening  refreshment  of  the  light, 

For  mere  security  of  life,  one  sinking 
O’erwhelm’d  in  waves  of  difficulty  calls. 

What  later  must  be  heal’d,  what  be  renew’d 
And  what  be  miss’d,  the  coming  daysw’ill  teach. 

Counsellor.  And  next  to  life  what  dost 
thou  most  desire? 

Eugenie.  To  live  in  my  beloved  father- 
land. 

Counsellor.  That  single  mighty  word  is 
much  to  ask. 

Eugenie.  A single  word  contains  my  hap- 
piness. 

Counsellor.  W’ho  can  annul  the  magic 
incantation  ? 

Eugenie.  Victorious  is  the  counter-charm 
of  virtue. 

Counsellor.  ’Tis  hard  to  fight  against 
superior  might. 

Eugenie.  Superior  might  is  not  all-power- 
ful ! 

But  surely  knowledge  of  the  legal  forms 
Which  bind  alike  the  lofty  and  the  low 
Has  found  a means.  Thou  smilest.  Is  it  true? 
'I'he  means  is  found.  Oh,  free  me  from  sus- 
pense. 

Counsellor.  What  were  the  advantage, 
lady,  if  I spoke 

Of  possibilities  to  thee?  Our  wishes 
Make  everything  seem  possible.  Our  aCts, 
Oppos’d  by  much  without  us  and  within. 

Are  ignominiously  brought  to  naught. 

I cannot,  dare  not  speak.  Let  me  depart. 

Eugenie.  And  even  if  thou  should’st  de- 
ceive ! Were  only 

My  imagination  for  a few  glad  moments 
Allow’d  to  try  a dubious,  feeble  flight  ! 

Let  me  exchange  one  evil  for  another. 

I feel  that  I am  sav’d  if  I can  choose. 

Counsellor.  There  is  one  way  by  which 
thou  canst  remain 

Here  in  thy  fatherland — a jieaceful  way. 

And  many  would  conceive  it  pleasant.  Favor 
Is  given  it  both  by  God  and  man.  ’Tis  lifted 
By  mighty  powers  above  all  fear  of  chance. 

To  those  who  take  it,  choose  it  for  their  own. 
It  bringeth  peace  and  fortune.  Full  abundance 
Of  all  desirable  fruits  of  life  it  gives  us 
As  well  as  most  alluring  future  hope. 

By  heaven  itself  ’twas  granted  unto  men 
To  be  a common  benefit  and  fortune. 

Or  boldness,  or  unfroward  inclination 
May  find  it  leads  to  fields  of  sure  content. 

Eugenie.  What  paradise  dost  thou  pre- 
sent in  riddles? 

Counsellor.  Earth’s  heavenly  fortune 
which  thou  canst  create. 


Eugenie.  A\’hat  heljis  my  riddling  it  ? I 
am  perplex’d. 

Counsellor.  Thyself  must  solve  it  or  thy 
hope  is  over. 

Eugenie.  Let  that  be  seen  when  thou  hast 
told  it  me. 

Counsellor.  Great  is  my  boldness  ! It  is 
marriage. 

Eugenie.  What  ! 

Counsellor.  The  word  is  spoken.  Thou 
must  ponder  it. 

Eugenie.  It  takes  me  by  surprise;  it  grieves 
my  heart. 

Counsellor.  Thou  must  face  bravely  what 
surprises  thee. 

Eugenie.  Far  from  me  was  it  in  my  happy 
days. 

And  now  its  nearness  is  to  me  a horror. 

My  sorrow,  my  anxieties  increase. 

My  father  and  my  King  I once  suppos’d 
Would  bring  the  bridegroom  at  the  proper  time. 
My  an.xious  fancy  did  not  search  the  future. 

No  lover’s  image  ever  fill’d  my  breast. 

Now  must  I think,  perforce,  unwonted  thoughts. 
And  school  myself  to  feelings  new  and  strange. 
Must  give  me  to  a husband,  ere  a man 
Loveworthy,  worthy  of  m3'  hand,  ajipear. 

And  violate  the  fortune  Hymen  grants 
To  save  me  from  the  misery  of  my  need. 

Counsellor.  A woman  may  entrust  her 
dubious  fiite 

To  any  worthy  man,  albeit  a stranger. 

He  is  no  stranger  who  can  sympathize. 

And  quickly  one  in  sore  distress  will  learn 
To  love  his  rescuer.  W’hat  brings  in  union 
Through  years  of  life  the  woman  with  the 
man — 

The  feeling  of  securit}’ — will  never 

Fail  her  in  comfort,  counsel,  help,  protedlion. 

With  which  upon  the  instant,  for  all  time, 

A steadfast  man  through  deeds  of  bravery 
Insjiires  the  woman  when  opjiress’d  with  danger. 

Eugenie.  And  where  for  me  were  such  a 
hero  found  ? 

Counsellor.  This  city  has  a host  of  worthy 
men. 

Eugenie.  Yet  no  one  knows  me  or  would 
care  to  know. 

Counsellor.  A face  like  thine  cannot  re- 
main conceal’d. 

Eugenie.  Oh,  do  not  cheat  a hope  so  prone 
to  fail. 

Where  would  a man  be  found  so  generous 
To  give  his  hand  to  me,  the  deeply-humbl’d  ? 
Could  I myself  accept  a boon  so  great  ? 

Counsellor.  Unfair  seem  many  things  in 
life ; yet  soon 


275 


And  unexpedled  comes  the  compensation. 

In  constant  change  the  weal  outweighs  the  woe, 
And  sudden  sorrows  counterbalance  joys. 
Nothing  is  constant.  Many  a coil  of  trouble 
Is  disentangled  while  the  days  roll  by 
Resolving  into  gradual  harmony. 

And  ah  ! the  widest  chasms  love  can  bridge, 
And  bind  in  lasting  union  earth  and  heaven. 

Eugenie.  With  empty  visions  wilt  thou 
mock  my  eyes? 

Counsellor.  Thy  safety  is  secur’d  if  thou 
canst  trust  me. 

Eugenie.  Then  let  me  see  my  rescuer’s 
faithful  image. 

Counsellor.  Thou  seest  him ; he  offers 
thee  his  hand. 

Eugenie.  Thou ! What  access  of  mad- 
ness has  o’ercome  thee? 

Counsellor.  Forever  resolute  my  feelings 
stand. 

Eugenie.  And  can  a moment  bring  forth 
such  a marvel  ? 

Counsellor.  A miracle  ever  is  a moment’s 
birth. 

Eugenie.  And  so  is  error  also  child  of 
rashness. 

Counsellor.  A man  who  once  has  seen 
thee  errs  no  more. 

Eugenie.  Wisdom  remains  forever  queen 
of  life. 

Counsellor.  She  may  mistake,  e’en  while 
the  heart  decides  ! 

Oh,  let  me  tell  thee  how  I with  myself. 

Not  many  hours  ago,  took  serious  counsel. 

.\nd  as  I felt  my  loneliness,  review’d 
My  situation  as  it  was,  my  fortune. 

Position,  possibilities  of  life, 

.■\.nd  cast  my  eyes  about  to  seek  a wife. 

Then  fancy  show’d  me  many  a jileasing  pic- 
ture, 

The  garner’d  treasures  of  my  recolledlion. 
They  pass’d  in  bright  procession  through  my 
mind  ; 

P>ut  to  a choice  my  heart  was  not  inclin’d  : 
Now  thou  appearest  and  my  bosom  glows 
^\’ith  sense  of  what  it  lack’d.  This  is  my  fate. 

Eugenie.  The  stranger,  ill-entreated,  sadly- 
dower’d, — 

She  could  confess  a glad,  proud  consolation 
To  see  herself  so  treasur’d  and  so  lov’d, 

But  she  considers  also  her  friend’s  fortune — 
The  unselfi.sh  man,  who  should  perchance  be 
last 

Among  all  men  to  proffer  her  his  aid. 

Dost  thou  not  cheat  thy  heart,  and  dost  thou 
dare 

Defy  those  mighty  powers  that  threaten  me  ? 


Counsellor.  Not  those  alone.  The  mon- 
strous violence 

That  stirs  among  the  masses  must  be  shunn’d. 
.And  God  has  given  men  the  safest  haven 
Within  the  home  o’er  which  the  husband  guards. 
There  only  dwelleth  jieace,  which  thou  in  vain 
Outside  its  sacred  circle  mightest  seek. 
Disturbing  jealousy,  venomous  calumny. 

The  noisy  strife  and  selfish  interests 
Within  its  lovely  shelter  have  no  place. 

Its  happiness  is  hedg’d  by  love  and  reason. 
And  all  mischance  is  soften’d  by  their  power. 
Oh,  come  ! Accept  the  safety  I can  offer. 

I know  myself  and  what  I dare  to  promise. 
Eugenie.  Art  thou  a Prince  within  thy 
house  ? 

Counsellor.  I am. 

.And  so  is  every  man,  the  evil  and  the  good. 

Is  not  that  house  a little  kingdom  where 
The  husband  tyrannizes  o’er  the  wife? 

Wlien  he,  according  to  his  selfish  humor. 

With  whims,  and  bitter  words  and  cruel  deeds. 
Takes  fiendish  pleasure  in  the  slow  destrudlion 
Of  gentle  joys  which  he  had  sworn  to  cherish. 
Who  dries  the  suffering  woman’s  tears?  What 
law 

Or  what  tribunal  reaches  the  offender? 

He  triumphs,  and  with  agony  of  patience 
.She  sinks  before  her  time  into  the  grave. 
Necessity,  the  law,  and  custom  gave 
The  man  these  arbitrary  powers.  They  trusted 
His  strength,  his  honest  worth  would  be  the 
safeguard. 

I cannot  offer  thee,  beloved,  honor’d  stranger, 
A knightly  arm,  a long  descent  of  heroes. 
Only  the  yeoman’s  worthy  rank  secure. 

When  thou  art  mine,  what  more  can  trouble  thee? 
Forever  thou  art  mine,  maintain’d,  protedled. 
Should  even  the  King  demand  thee  back  from 
me, 

As  consort  I could  reckon  with  the  King. 

Eugenie.  Forgive  me.  Yet  too  vividly  I see 
Hovering  before  me  what  I lost  so  lightly. 

0 friend  magnanimous,  thou  canst  not  think 
How  little  now  of  good  remains  to  me. 

This  little  thou  teachest  me  to  prize,  thou 
givest 

With  new  vitality  endow’d  myself 
Back  to  myself,  so  generous  is  thy  heart. 

1 give  thee  honor  for  it — can  I speak  it  ? — 
Tlie  grateful  loving  feelings  of  a sister  ! 

I call  myself  thy  work,  but  what  thou  wishest 
Alas  ! I never  can  become  to  thee. 

CouNSELi.OR.  Dost  thou  so  rashly  blast  my 
hope  and  thine  ? 

Eugenie.  The  word  that  dooms  our  hopes 
is  ever  sudden. 


276 


With  rapture.  Must  a hasty  “ Fare-thee- 
well” 

Now  seal  our  everlasting  separation  ? 

Governess.  Do  I surmise  the  purport  of 
your  talk  ? 

Counsellor.  Thou  seest  me  anxious  for 
the  eternal  union. 

Governess.  ( To  Eugenie,  j And  how 
dost  thou  receive  so  great  an  offer? 

Eugenie.  With  keenest  gratitude  that  heart 
could  render. 

Governess.  And  art  thou  not  inclin’d  to 
grasp  this  hand  ? 

Counsellor.  She  turn’d  to  me  for  aid  im- 
portunately. 

Eugenie.  What  next  us  lies  is  oft  beyond 
our  reach. 

Governess.  Ah  ! quite  too  soon  relief  will 
be  too  late. 

Counsellor.  And  hast  thou  thought  of  all 
the  threatening  ill  ? 

Eugenie.  E’en  to  the  last  that  threatens — 
death  itself. 


SCENE  m. 

The  Same.  Governess. 

Governess.  'I'he  fleet  already  hears  the 
favoring  wind  ; 

The  sails  are  bellying;  all  is  in  commotion. 

In  tears  the  parting  take  one  more  embrace, 
.\nd  from  the  vessels,  from  the  steadfast  land, 
White  handkerchiefs  are  waving  last  farewells. 
And  soon  our  vessel  also  weighs  the  anchor. 


Come  ! let  us  go.  No  parting  salutation 

Consoles  us,  not  a tear  is  shed  for  us. 

Counsellor.  Not  unbewail’d,  not  without 
bitter  pain 

Of  friends  deserted,  who  would  rescue  you. 

Who  stretch  forth  yearning  arms,  ye  pass  from 
sight. 

Oh,  yet  perchance  from  far  will  smile  upon 
you 

Desir’d  in  vain  the  vision  ye  now  scorn. 

(7h  Eugenie,  j 

A few  short  moments  since  I welcom’d  thee 


Governess.  Dost  thou  decline  the  life  that’s 
offer’d  thee? 

Counsellor.  Deledlable  days  of  glad  fes- 
tivity. 

Eugenie.  One  festival  1 hop’d  for:  hope 
is  ]iast. 

Governe.ss.  Who  much  has  lost  again  can 
quickly  gain. 

Counsellor.  A lingering  destiny  instead 
of  glory. 

Eugenie.  When  glory  quench’d  its  light 
slow  days  began. 


277 


Governess.  The  possible  fate  in  store 
should  bring  content. 

Counsellor.  Who  would  not  be  content 
with  love  and  faith? 

Eugenie.  My  heart  would  contradidt  those 
flattering  words, 

And  contravene  you  both  impatiently. 

Counsellor.  Alas ! I know  how  all  too 
burdensome 

Is  succor  undesir’d.  It  only  rouses 
Within  our  hearts  the  strongest  opposition. 

We  should  be  grateful,  but  our  thanks  are 
scanty 

Because  we  are  not  willing  to  receive. 

So  let  me  go.  But  ere  our  paths  divide 
I must  fulfil  the  duty  and  the  custom 
Incumbent  on  the  native  of  the  port : 

And  to  your  voyage  across  the  barren  main 
Devote  refreshing  stores  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
My  parting  benedidtion  and  farewell. 

'I'hen  will  I stand  and  watch  with  stony  eyes 
While  down  the  horizon  fades  the  towering  sail. 
And  with  it  go  my  happiness  and  fortune. 


SCENE  IV. 

Eugenie.  Governess. 

Eugenie.  Upon  thy  will  I know  my  hap- 
piness. 

My  misery  depend.  Oh,  be  persuaded  ! 

Oh,  let  thy  hard  heart  yield  ! Send  me  not 
hence. 

Governess.  It  lies  with  thee  to  guide  our 
future  course. 

Thou  hast  a choice.  I only  can  obey 

The  ruling  hand  ; it  hurls  me  swift  away. 

Eugenie.  And  dost  thou  call  it  choice 
when  opposite 

The  stronghold  of  impossibility 

The  unavoidable  arrays  itself? 

Governess.  The  alliance  can  be  made,  the 
ban  be  broken. 

Eugenie.  There  are  things  that  a noble 
cannot  do. 

Governess.  This  worthy  man  might  well 
inspire  thy  favor. 

Eugenie.  If  thou  would’st  bring  me  back 
to  better  fortune 

I vvould  reward  his  kindness  boundlessly. 

Governess.  Oh.  give  him  now  the  only 
boon  he  asks, 

.\nd  lead  him  by  thy  hand  to  higher  levels. 

If  virtue,  if  desert  but  slowly  forward 

The  man  of  capability,  if  he. 


With  calm  renunciation,  scarcely  notic’d. 
Devotes  himself  to  others,  striving  upwards, 

A noble  wife  will  lead  him  to  his  goal. 

Let  no  man  look  below  him  for  a spouse. 

Too  lofty  his  ambition  cannot  be. 

If  he  succeeds  to  woo  a high-born  lady 
The  path  of  life  will  smooth  before  his  steps. 
Eugenie.  The  meaning  of  thy  false,  con- 
fusing words 

I disentangle  from  thy  lying  speech. 

The  opposite  I know  too  well  is  true. 

The  husband  irresistibly  compels 
The  wife  to  take  the  exclusive  course  he  fol- 
lows. 

Once  there,  forever  there ; she  cannot  choose 
By  force  inherent  ways  dissimilar. 

From  low  condition  he  will  lift  her  up; 

And  so  from  higher  spheres  he  snares  her  down  ; 
Her  former  self  is  vanish’d  quite  away. 
Extinguish’d  every  trace  of  days  departed. 
What  she  has  won  who  now  can  tear  from  her? 
And  who  can  give  her  back  what  she  has  lost  ? 
Governess.  And  thus  thou  dost  pronounce 
the  fatal  sentence. 

Eugenie.  Yet  full  of  hope  I look  for  rescue 
still. 

Governess.  When  he  who  loves  despairs 
how  canst  thou  hope? 

Eugenie.  A man  less  passionate  would 
counsel  better. 

Governess.  Of  choice  and  counsel  let  no 
more  be  said  ; 

Thou  driv’st  me  into  exile  : thou  must  follow. 
Eugenie.  Oh,  would  that  yet  once  more 
before  my  eyes 

Thou  would’st  appear  with  gentle  friendliness, 
As  always  from  the  earliest  days  I saw  thee. 
With  not  more  sweet,  benevolent  glance  than 
thine. 

The  sun  whose  glorv  animates  all  life, 
d’he  bright  moon  with  its  soft  inspiring  rays. 
Pour’d  forth  their  heavenly  influence  on  my 
mind. 

What  boldest  wish  was  not  anticipated  ? 

What  was  to  fear  ? The  safeguard  was  prepar’d. 
And  though  my  mother  held  herself  aloof 
/\nd  did  not  show  her  favor  to  her  child 
Thou  earnest  to  me  in  a mother’s  place. 
Consoling  me  with  limitless  affeftion. 

And  art  thou  now  so  chang’d?  Thou  seemest 
In  outward  guise  the  same  old  loving  friend. 
But  inwardly  thy  heart  has  wholly  chang’d. 

It  still  is  thou  whom  I so  often  ask’d 
For  favors  small  and  great,  never  denied. 

The  childlike  sentiment  of  wonted  reverence 
It  prompts  me  now  to  ask  the  greatest  boon. 


278 


1H1-.  NAIURAL  DAUGHTER.  ACT  IV,  SCENE  1\'. 


EUGENIA  AND  THE  GOVEKNESS. 


And  could  it  lower  me  to  beg  thee  now 

On  bended  knee,  as  though  before  my  father, 

As  though  before  my  King,  my  God,  for  safety? 

\_She  kneels. 

Governess.  It'  seems  to  me  that  in  thy 
present  mood  . 

Thou  mockest  me,  and  falsehood  moves  me 
not. 

\_She  roughly  lifts  Eugenie  to  her  feet. 

Eugenie.  A tone  so  harsh,  such  inconsid- 
erate treatment. 

Must  I endure  to  suffer  at  thy  hands  ? 

And  dost  thou  fright  away  my  dream  so  rudely  ? \ 

In  clearest  light  I see  my  destiny. 

’Twas  not  my  fault,  ’twas  not  the  strife  of 
party. 

It  was  my  brother’s  guile  that  drove  me  hither ; 

And  thou,  a sworn  conspirator  with  him, 

Compellest  me  to  suffer  lifelong  exile. 

Governess.  Thy  error  drives  thee  into 
thoughts  unjust. 

What  will  thy  brother  scheme  to  do  against 
thee  ? 

He  has  the  will  perchance  but  not  the  power. 

Eugenie.  As  he  desires,  so  let  it  be.  I will 
not 


In  those  far-distant  hopeless  deserts  languish. 

A living  people  move  around  me  here, 

A loving  people,  in  whose  hearts  the  name 
Of  father  spoken  by  a child  is  sweet. 

I will  demand  their  aid.  A mighty  shout 
Would  summon  rescuers  from  the  brawny 
rabble. 

Governess.  The  brawny  rabble  thou  hast 
never  known. 

They  stare  and  wonder  and  procrastinate 
While  what  is  done  is  done.  And  if  they  move 
Failure  attends  their  planless  enterprise. 

Eugenie.  Thou  shalt  not  with  thy  chilling 
word  destroy 

My  faith,  as  thou  hast  ruin’d  my  happiness. 
Down  in  the  city  life  shall  give  me  life  ; 

There  where  the  billowing  throngs  stream  cease- 
lessly. 

Where  every  heart  contented  with  its  pit- 
tance 

Will  open  to  the  touch  of  sympathy — 

Thou  shalt  not  keep  me  back.  I’ll  shout  aloud, 
Impetuously  maxing  in  the  throng. 

And  blazon  forth  the  frightful  deed  of  crime 
Which  fills  my  soul  with  poignant  pangs  of 
fear. 


279 


ACT  V. 


My  mind  is  dull’d,  my  feelings  are  confus’d, 

And  I could  wish  I were  among  the  dead. 

Governess.  Oh,  would  this  magic  had  re- 
veal’d its  power 

In  days  when  I besought  thee  fervently 

To  let  those  lofty  schemes  of  thine  dissolve. 

Eugenie.  Didst  thou  imagine  such  a mon- 
strous evil 

And  didst  not  warn  the  all-too-trustful  mind? 

Governess.  Indeed  I warn’d  thee  but  in 
guarded  words  ; 

The  secret  spoken  out  had  brought  thee  death. 

Eugenie.  And  yet  behind  thy  silence  exile 
lay ; 

More  welcome  to  me  were  the  doom  of  death. 

Governess.  Yet  this  misfortune,  unforeseen 
or  not, 

Has  snar’d  me  with  thee  in  the  selfsame  net. 


SCENE  I. — Plaza  at  the  Port. 

Eugenie.  Governess. 

Eugenie.  What  influence  dost  thou  use  to 
draw  me  back? 

Now  also  I obey  against  my  will. 

O cursed  jiow'er,  thy  voice  has  won  upon  me, 
Which  erst  so  smoothly  led  me  to  obey. 

Which  got  the  mastery  of  the  whole  domain 
Wherein  my  plastic  nature  was  confin’d. 

’Twas  thou  who  taught  me  first  the  magic 
power 

Of  speech,  the  fine  artistic  web  of  w'ords. 

Thy  lips  unseal’d  the  w'orld  to  me  and  gave 
me 

The  costly  knowledge  of  my  inmost  heart. 
'I'his  magic  now  thou  usest  to  my  harm  ; 

'I'hoti  kindest  me,  thou  draggest  me  away. 


280 


Eugenie.  How  can  I know  what  great  re- 
ward thou ’It  have 

When  thou  hast  work’d  the  undoing  of  thy 
charge  ? 

Governess.  ’Tis  waiting  for  me  on  a for- 
eign shore. 

'I'he  sail  is  spread  and  bears  us  both  away. 

Eugenie.  The  prison  of  the  ship  has  not 
yet  seiz’d  me  ; 

’Tis  not  too  late;  why  should  I go  unwilling? 

Governess.  Hast  thou  not  once  appeal’d 
unto  the  people  ? 

'I'hey  only  stared  in  silence  and  went  their  way. 

Eugenie.  Contending  as  I was  with  keen 
emotions 

The  common  people  thought  that  I was  mad. 

Yet  not  with  words  or  violence  should’st  thou 
hinder 

My  bold,  courageous  steps  to  get  me  aid. 

'I'he  magnates  of  this  city  from  their  houses 

Come  hither  to  the  strand  to  watch  the  vessels 

Which  mass’d  in  fleets,  by  us  unlov’d,  depart. 

Within  the  palace  of  the  governor 

The  guards  are  stirring  ; he  it  is  who  comes 

Adown  yon  steps  escorted  by  a throng. 

I will  address  him  and  unfold  my  case. 

If  he  be  fit  to  represent  my  King 

And  take  his  place  in  matters  of  concern. 

He’ll  not  repulse  me  without  hearing  me. 

Governess.  I stand  not  in  the  way  of  this 
attempt  ; 

Yet  name  no  names,  but  only  tell  thy  stor\’. 

Eugenie.  No  names  until  I see  that  I can 
trust  liim. 

Governess.  He  seems  to  be  a noble  youth, 
and  gladly 

Will  do  his  utmost  to  confer  a favor. 


SCENE  11. — The  Same. 

The  Governor.  Adjutants. 

Eugenie.  I crave  a pardon  for  my  over 
boldness ; 

Oh,  wilt  thou  heed  the  stranger  in  thy  wav? 

Governor,  f After  long  ami  attentive  con- 
templation.) One  who,  like  thee,  com- 
mends herself  at  sight 

Will  be  secure  of  friendliest  reception. 

Eugenie.  No  bright  and  friendly  matter 
do  I bring ; 

The  deepest  woe  compels  me  to  address  thee. 

Governor.  Then  let  it  be  m\-  duty  to  dis- 
pel it ; 

Or  failing  that,  to  make  it  light  to  bear. 


Eugenie.  She  who  petitions  is  of  loftiest 
race ; 

And  yet  she  has  no  right  to  bear  its  name. 

Governor.  A name  is  soon  forgotten;  but 
thy  face 

Would  stay  forever  in  the  memor\-. 

Eugenie.  Me  from  my  father’’s  breast  to 
the  wild  sea 

Has  treacherous  violence  harshly  torn  and 
forc’d. 

Governor.  Who  with  irreverent,  hostile 
hand  could  think 

Of  bringing  pain  to  such  a peaceful  heart? 

Eugenie.  Suspicion  only  tells  me  that  this 
blow 

Wag’d  by  a member  of  my  race  fell  on  me. 

Misled  by  selfishness  and  evil  counsels 

My  brother  plotted  this  destruction  for  me. 

And  she  whom  here  thou  seest,  who  nurtured 
me, 

I know  not  why,  sides  with  my  enemies. 

Governess.  I side  with  her  and  mitigate 
an  evil 

Which  I,  alas!  cannot  entirely  cure. 

Eugenie.  She  forces  me  to  embark  upon 
the  ship  ; 

She  carries  me  away  to  yonder  isles ! 

Governess.  If  I mxself  go  with  thee  on 
this  exile 

It  proves  my  love  and  motherly  devotion. 

Governor.  Forgive  me,  honor’d  ladies, 
if,  one  instant. 

Surprise  at  seeing  and  at  hearing  you 

O’ercomes  a man  who,  \'oung  in  \-ears,  has 
seen 

And  has  consider’d  many  things  in  life. 

Ye  both  to  me  seem  worthy  of  belief ; 

And  yet  does  each  of  you  distrust  the  other. 

At  least  it  seems  so.  What  am  I to  do 

To  disentangle  now  the  twisted  threads 

^Vhich  in  a puzzling  knot  so  strangely  bind 
you  ? 

Eugenie.  If  thou  wilt  hear  me  I will  tell 
thee  more. 

Governess.  I also  much  am  able  to  ex- 
plain. 

Governor.  That  oftentimes  we  are  de- 
ceiv’d by  strangers 

Must  also  jirejtidice  the  truth  when  seen 

Behind  the  seeming  of  adventurers. 

Eugenie.  If  thou  dost  not  believe  me  I 
am  lost. 

Governor.  E’en  if  I did  believe  ’tis  hard 
to  help. 

Eugenie.  Oh,  send  me  to  my  father’s 
house  again  ! 


281 


Governor.  To  rescue  outcast  children,  to 
protedl 

Foundlings  or  those  who  have  been  put  away 
Brings  small  reward  to  wisely-thinking  men. 
About  the  inheritance  of  property 
Arises  question  of  the  rightful  heir, 

And  hateful  passions  seethe,  and  if  relations 
Brawl  noisily  about  the  Mine  and  Thine 
'I'he  stranger  who  shall  meddle  wins  the  hate 
Of  both  sides.  Not  infrequently  indeed. 

If  his  more  strenuous  interference  fail. 

In  shame  before  the  judgment  he  is  brought. 
And  so  excuse  me  if  I cannot  promise 
A hopeful  answer  to  thy  pressing  claim. 

Eugenie.  If  such  timidity  becomes  the 
noble. 

Then  whither  shall  the  poor  downtrodden  turn? 
Governor.  Yet  certainly  thou  wilt  excuse 
me  now. 

Since  urgent  business  calls  me  swiftly  hence. 

If  I invite  thee  early  on  the  morrow 
M’o  seek  my  palace,  there  more  comfortably 
To  learn  the  heavy  fate  that  weighs  thee  down. 
Eugenie.  With  pleasure  will  I come.  And 
in  advance 

Accept  my  earnest  thanks  for  my  relief. 

Governess.  f Putting  a paper  into  his 
hands.)  If  we  do  not  accept  thy  invita- 
tion 

This  leaflet  will  appear  our  exculpation. 

Governor.  ( Reading  it  attentively  and 
handing  it  back.)  My  only  service  to 
thee  then  can  be 

To  wish  that  thou  may’st  have  a fortunate  voy- 
Submission  to  thy  destiny,  and  hope. 

SCENE  III. 

Eugenie.  Governess. 

Eugenie.  Is  this  the  talisman  which  thou 
hast  wielded 

To  carry  me  away,  to  hold  me  prison’d. 
Which  palsies  all  who  come  to  my  assistance? 
Oh,  let  me  look  upon  this  deadly  sheet. 

I’ve  learn’d  to  know  my  grief;  so  let  me  now 
Know  also  who  has  caus’d  the  fatal  blow. 

Governess.  ( Opening  the  paper  before  her.) 
Here  ! Look  upon  it ! 

Eugenie.  ( Turning  away.)  Horrible  sen- 
sation ! 

Have  I surviv’d  it  that  my  father’s  name. 

My  King’s  name  flash’d  against  me  from  the 
page  ? 


Yet  may  deception  have  been  play’d,  perchance 
Some  crown  official,  insolent,  has  dared 
Misuse  his  power,  andserve  my  brother’s  whim. 
To  harass  me.  Then  can  I yet  be  rescu’d. 

I’ll  try  this  also.  Let  me  see. 

Governess.  (As  before.)  Behold  ! 
Eugenie.  (As  before.)  My  courage  fails 
me.  Nay  ! I dare  not  look. 

Let  be  as  Fate  will  have  it : I am  lost. 

Driven  out  from  all  advantage  of  this  world. 
Oh,  let  me  then  renounce  this  world  forever. 
Oh,  grant  me  this  one  boon.  My  enemies. 
And  thou  among  them,  wish  my  death,  they 
wish 

To  bury  me  alive.  Permit  me  then 
'ho  yield  me  to  the  church  which  greedily 
Has  swallow’d  so  many  a guiltle.ss  offering. 
Here  the  cathedral  stands;  this  door  condudls 
To  silent  sorrow  or  to  silent  joy. 

Oh,  let  me  take  this  step  and  hide  myself 
And  what  awaits  me  there  shall  be  my  fate. 
Go’.erness.  I see  the  Abbess  comes  ac- 
companied 

By  twain  o’  the  sisters  down  into  the  plaza. 
.She  too  is  young  and  of  a jirincely  house. 
Disclose  thy  wish  to  her;  I will  not  hinder. 


SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 

Abbess.  Two  Nuns. 

Eugenie.  Adorable,  holy  virgin,  here  thou 
seest 

One  who  is  stupefied,  confus’d,  at  odds 
With  self  and  with  the  world.  My  present 
sorrow, 

Solicitude  for  future  evils  drive  me 
To  seek  thy  presence,  where  I dare  to  hope 
For  swift  deliverance  from  monstrous  wrong. 

Abbess.  If  peace,  refledlion,  reconciliation 
With  God  and  our  own  hearts  can  be  imparted. 
Then,  noble  stranger,  shall  the  faithful  word 
Be  taught  thee  which  shall  make  thee  know 
the  joy 

That  blesses  now  and  ever  me  and  mine. 
Eugenie.  Unending  is  my  woe ; not 
even  speech 

With  power  divine  could  serve  to  assuage  it. 
Oh,  take  me  ! let  me  stay  where  thou  dost  stay, 
And  first,  dissolv’d  in  tears  of  melancholy. 
Devote  my  lighten’d  heart  to  consolation. 
Abbess.  Oft  have  I seen  within  my  holy 
sphere 

fl'he  tears  of  earth  change  into  heavenly  smiles. 
And  bitter  sorrow  into  joy  divine. 


282 


Yet  not  by  force  can  entrance  here  be  made. 

Full  many  a trial  must  the  novice  suffer 

That  we  may  know  her  absolute  desert. 

Governess.  Complete  desert  is  easy  to 
perceive, 

And  easy  to  fulfil  severe  conditions. 

Abbess.  I do  not  doubt  thy  gentleness  of 
birth, 

d'hy  property,  are  all  could  be  desir’d 

'I'o  gain  the  privileges  of  this  house 

For  thee,  although  they  are  so  great  and 
tempting  : 

So  let  me  C[uic;kly  learn  what  be  thy  wishes. 

Eugenie.  Grant  my  petition,  take  me  to 
thy  care  ! 

Conceal  me  from  the  world  in  deep  seclusion. 

All  that  is  mine  I freely  give  to  thee. 

Much  do  I bring  and  more  I hope  to  offer. 


Abbess.  If  youth  and  beauty  can  appeal 
to  us, 

A noble  maiden  fills  our  heart  with  love; 

Dear  child,  then  hast  thou  many  claims  ipjon  us. 

Beloved  daughter,  come  into  my  arms. 

Eugenie.  With  words  like  these,  with  such 
a warm  embrace. 

Thou  hast  at  once  apjieas’d  the  angry  storm 

Which  rag’d  within  my  heart.  The  last  wave 
dying 

Still  foams  around  me.  I have  reach’d  thejiort. 

Governess.  {Stepping  between.)  Did  not 
a wretched  destiny  oj)pose  ! 

Behold  this  pajier  ! give  us  then  thy  juty. 

[She  hands  the  Abbess  the  paper. 

Abbess.  (Having  read  it.)  My  censure 
thou  deservest  since  thou  knewest 

That  this  was  so,  and  yet  our  vain  discourse 

283 


Thou  didst  permit  unchalleng’d,  though  thou 
heardest. 

I bow  my  head  before  the  mightier  hand 
That  seems  to  rule  here. 


SCENE  V. 

Eugenie.  Coverness. 

Eugenie.  What!  a mightier  hand  ? 

What  means  the  hypocrite?  Is’t  God  she 
means  ? 

The  Almighty  God  of  heaven  has  not  surely 
To  do  with  any  such  atrocious  deed. 

Or  does  she  mean  our  King?  Well  I I must 
bear  it — 

Whatever  he  imposes  on  me.  Yet 
I will  no  longer  dubiously  hover 
Between  my  love  and  fear,  nor  like  a woman 
E’en  while  I sink  will  spare  the  feelings 
Which  fill  my  timid  heart.  .So  let  it  break 
If  break  it  must ; and  now  I wish  to  see 
That  paper,  if  the  sentence  unto  death 
Be  by  my  King  or  by  my  father  sign’d. 

Before  the  angry  godhead  that  has  crush’d  me 
I stand  and  face  the  consequences  boldly. 

Oh,  that  I really  stood  before  it  ! Fearful 
Is  the  last  glance  of  injur’d  innocence. 

Governess.  I never  have  refus’d  it ; take 
it  now. 

Eugenie.  (Looking  at  the  outside  of  the 
paper.)  It  is  the  idiosyncrasy  of  man 
'Fuat  in  the  very  extremity  of  evil 
The  fear  of  further  loss  clings  to  him  still. 

Are  we  so  rich,  ye  gods,  that  at  one  blow 
Ye  cannot  strip  us  of  our  last  possession  ? 

This  paper  tore  me  from  my  life’s  delight, 

.\nd  lets  me  still  forebode  a deeper  grief. 

\_She  unfolds  it. 

■\h,  well ! be  brave,  my  heart,  and  tremble  not 
To  drain  this  bitter  cup  e’en  to  the  dregs. 

\^She  peers  into  it. 

The  seal  and  manual  of  the  King! 

Governess.  ( Taking  away  the  paper.) 

Good  child  ! 

On  me  have  pity  while  thyself  thou  mournest. 
In  undertaking  this  disastrous  duty 
I but  fulfil  the  bidding  of  the  Almighty, 

That  I may  stand  beside  thee  in  thy  sorrow. 
Lest  in  the  hand  of  strangers  thou  should’st  fall. 
What  fills  my  soul  with  anguish,  all  I know 
About  this  frightful  deed  soon  thou  shalt  learn. 
But  grant  me  pardon  if  necessity 
With  iron  hand  compels  me  instantly 
To  take  our  passage  on  the  parting  vessel. 


SCENE  VI. 

Eugenie.  Afterwards  Governess  in  back- 
ground. 

Eugenie.  Thus  then  the  loveliest  kingdom 
on  the  earth. 

This  seaport  peopled  by  its  busy  thousands. 
Becomes  a wilderness.  I am  alone. 

Here  noble  gentlemen  conform  to  laws. 

And  warriors  listen  to  the  word  of  duty ; 

Here  saints  in  peace  beseech  the  God  of 
heaven  ; 

The  throng  are  busy  striving  after  gain  ; 

But  I am  banish’d  without  right  or  justice. 
'I'here  is  no  hand  to  arm  itself  for  me; 

The  house  of  safety  is  shut  fast  against  me  ; 
None  dares  to  stir  an  inch  in  my  defence. 
Banishment  ! Yes,  the  hideous,  burdensome 
word 

Already  crushes  me  with  all  its  weight. 

I feel  that  I am  but  a lifeless  member 
The  which  the  healthy  bod\'  lops  away. 

.\s  one  who  dies  before  his  time  I am — 

NVho,  conscious  of  himself  but  stricken  dumb, 
Lies  shuddering  in  a waking  dream,  to  be 
'I'he  unwilling  witness  of  his  own  interment. 
Unspeakable  necessity!  Yet  hold  ! 

Is  not  a choice  still  left  me?  Can  I not 
Lay  hold  upon  the  hand  of  that  good  man 
Who  offer’d  aid  to  me,  the  nobly  born. 

But  could  1 do  it  ? I renounce  the  birth 
Which  lifted  me  to  such  a lofty  height  ? 
Forever  yield  the  glory  of  my  hope? 

In  vain  ! oh,  seize  me.  Force,  with  brazen  claws  ! 
Unseeing  Fate,  oh,  take  me  hence  away  ! 

'Fhe  choice  that  trembles  dubious  ’twixt  two 
ills 

Is  even  harder  than  the  ill  itself. 

[Governess,  with  porters  carrying  luggage, 
goes  in  silence  across  the  background. 

They  come,  they  bear  off  with  them  my  pos- 
sessions. 

The  last  remaining  of  my  costly  treasures. 

Will  all  I have  be  stolen  from  me  too? 

They  take  them  to  the  ship  and  I must  follow. 
A favoring  zephyr  lifts  the  pennant  seawards ; 
Soon  shall  I see  the  swelling  sails  all  spread. 
The  fleet  already  leaves  the  harbor  mouth  ! 
And  now  the  ship  that  bears  me  wretched  sails. 
They’re  coming  ! I must  set  my  foot  on  board. 
O God  ! Why  are  the  heavens  as  brass  above 
me  ? 

Does  not  my  voice  of  anguish  reach  thine  ear? 
So  be  it  ! I will  go.  Yet  shall  the  vessel 
Not  swallow  me  within  its  prison  cell. 

The  plank  that  leads  me  over  to  its  side 


284 


Shall  be  the  first  step  for  me  unto  freedom. 
Receive  me  then,  ye  billows,  take  me  up. 

And  girdling  me  around  let  me  descend 
Into  the  bosom  of  your  solemn  peace. 

And  when  at  last  no  more  I have  to  fear 
From  the  injustice  of  this  world,  then  roll 
To  shore  my  whitening  bones,  that  pious  care 
May  m.ake  my  grave  upon  my  native  soil. 

[A/id”  takes  a few  steps. 

Why  stop  then  ? 

\_She  hesitates. 
Will  my  foot  no  more  obey  me? 
What  chains  my  steps?  What  seems  to  hold 
me  here  ? 

Oh,  fatal  love  for  miserable  life. 

Again  thou  bring’st  me  to  the  bitter  strife. 

By  banishment,  by  death  and  degradation 
1 am  environ’d  round  about  and  each 
Has  deeper  anguish  for  me  than  the  other. 

.\nd  when  I turn  my  shuddering  eyes  from  one 
'I'he  other  glares  with  hellish  face  upon  me. 

Is  there  no  mortal  means,  no  means  divine 
To  free  me  from  this  thousand-footed  anguish? 
Oh,  that  a single  sympathetic  word 
Might  chance  to  reach  me  from  the  passing 
throng. 

Oh,  that  a bird,  foreboding  peace,  might  fly 
Light-winged  by  me,  guiding  me  to  shelter. 

1 gladly  follow  whither  fate  should  call. 

Point  me  the  way  and  faith  shall  lead  me  on. 
Or  give  me  but  a hint  and  I will  yield 
In  hope  and  confidence  without  delay. 


SCENE  VII. 

PluGENiE.  Monk. 

Eugenie.  (Standing  long  in  contemplation, 
then  lifting  her  eyes  and  seeing  the  Monk,  j 
I cannot  doubt  it : here  at  last  is  safety. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  shall  decide  my  course. 

In  answer  to  my  prayer  he  comes  to  me, 
man  of  wisdom,  full  of  years,  to  whom 
'I'he  heart  unhesitating  flies  for  .succor. 

\_Approaching  him. 

My  father!  let  the  sweet,  paternal  name 
To  me  denied,  forbidden  and  embitter’d. 

Be  now  transferr’d  to  thee,  the  noble  stranger. 
Let  me  narrate  my  trouble  in  few  words. 

With  pain  and  yet  with  confidence  I lay  it 
Upon  thy  heart,  not  for  thy  quality 
Of  wisdom  and  discreetness,  but  because 
'Phou  art  an  aged  man  belov’d  by  God. 

Monk.  What  troubles  thee  disclose  with 
perfedi  freedom. 


! Through  Providence  the  sufferer  meets  with 
him 

Who  ever  must  regard  his  highest  duty 
The  alleviation  of  the  woes  of  others. 

Eugenie.  A riddle  thou  wilt  hear  and  not 
complaints. 

For  I would  seek  an  oracle,  not  counsel. 

1 In  two  detestable  diredtions  stretch 
'Pwo  paths  before  my  feet.  The  one  leads 
hither. 

The  other  thence.  Which  one  shall  I seledf  ? 
Monk.  Thou  art  a tempter  to  me.  Thou 
wilt  count 

: M_v  answer  as  a lot  ? 
j Eugenie.  A sacred  lot. 

Monk.  If  I conceive  thee  right,  thy  eyes 
I aspire 

To  higher  regions  out  of  deepest  need. 

The  will  is  stricken  dead  within  thy  heart. 
Thou  hopest  for  a stronger  to  decide. 

In  sooth,  incomprehensibly  to  us. 

The  ever-adtive  Agent  as  by  chance 
' Sets  this  or  that  before  us,  for  our  good. 

For  our  deliberation,  our  decision. 

Or  our  accomplishment:  thus,  as  it  were. 
Carried,  in  spite  of  us  we  win  the  goal. 

'fo  comprehend  this  is  the  richest  fortune ; 

’Tis  absolute  duty  not  to  interfere. 

To  wait  in  patience,  comfort  in  dii tress. 

C)h,  would  that  I were  granted  grace  to  feel 
Beforehand  what  were  truly  best  for  thee. 

But  in  my  breast  preseiitiment  is  silent. 

I And  if  thou  canst  confide  no  more  in  me 
' Then  take  a fruitless  ] ity  for  farewell, 
t Eugenie.  Shipwreck’d  I still  have  one  last 
spar  to  clutch. 

I hold  thee  fast  and  speak  against  my  will 
For  the  last  time  the  word  that  crushes  hope. 

[ A scion  of  a noble  house  I now 
Am  outcast,  banish’d  o’er  the  sea;  but  yet 
I could  avoid  mv  fate  through  marriage  bonds 
\Yh  ich  drag  me  down  to  low  ignoble  spheres. 
What  whispers  now'  thy  heart?  Still  is  it 
silent  ? 

; Monk.  Let  it  not  speak  until  my  searching 
j reason 

j Shall  be  oblig’d  to  recognize  its  weakness. 

The  story  which  to  me  thou  hast  confided 
Is  too  indefinite,  and  my  advice 
Can  likewise  only  be  indefinite. 

If  thoti  art  forc’d  to  choose  between  two  evils 
I Both  hated,  face  them  boldly,  and  then  choose 
' The  one  that  will  allow  thee  widest  scope 
! For  worthy  deeds  and  holy  undertakings, 

'Fhat  puts  the  smallest  limits  to  thy  spirit. 

That  hinders  thee  the  least  from  noble  adlions. 


Eugenie.  It  is  not  marriage  then  that  thou 
advisest  ? 

Monk.  Not  such  an  one  as  seems  to  threaten 
thee. 

What  blessing  can  the  priest  give  when  the 
“Yes” 

Proceeds  not  from  the  fair  bride’s  inmost  heart? 
He  should  not  chain  two  contraries  together 
Lest  conflict  ever  freshly  born  should  rise. 

It  is  his  godlike  service  to  fulfil 

The  wish  of  Love  which  to  the  All,  the  one, 

To  the  eternal  joins  the  momentary, 

And  that  which  fades  to  that  which  lasts  forever. 
Eugenie.  Thou  sendest  me  to  woe  across 
the  ocean. 

Monk.  Go  hence  with  comfort  for  the 
wretched  there. 

Eugenie.  What  comfort  can  I give  in 
dark  despair  ? 

Monk.  A pure  heart  as  is  witness’d  by  thy 
face. 

A noble  courage,  lofty,  boundless  thoughts. 
Will  hold  thee  firm  and  others,  wheresoe’er 
On  earth  thy  steps  may  wander.  If  thou  now 
In  bloom  of  youth  art  banish’d  innocent. 

And  bearest  through  thy  solemn  acquiescence 
'I'he  imputation  of  the  sins  of  others. 

Then  wilt  thou,  like  a suj)erhuman  nature, 
Diffuse  a wondrous  virtue  all  around  thee — 
The  hap])y  fortune  of  thy  innocence. 

So  then  go  hence  ! Go  like  a healing  breeze 
Within  the  circle  of  those  sorrowing  ones; 
Rejoice  with  thy  ajtpearance  that  sad  world. 
Through  powerful  words,  through  mighty  deeds 
encourage 

New  strength  in  hearts  that  have  forgot  to  hope. 
Unite  the  scatter’d  into  bands  around  thee. 


Bind  them  in  love  together,  all  to  thee. 

Create  there  what  thou  here  hast  lost, 

A race  and  fatherland  and  princely  house. 
Eugenie.  Would’st  thou  have  faith  to  do 
what  thou  commandest  ? 

Monk.  Thus  have  I done.  When  still  my 
years  were  young 

The  spirit  led  me  into  savage  lands. 

I chang’d  rough  lives  to  gentle  pradlices; 

I gave  the  hope  of  heaven  unto  death. 

Oh,  had  I not,  misled  by  genuine  longing 
To  serve  my  fatherland,  turn’d  back  my  steps 
Unto  this  desert  of  audacious  life. 

This  city  wilderness  of  subtile  crimes. 

This  troubled  jiool  of  selfish  vanity  ! 

The  era’s  impotency  chains  my  spirit, 

Old  customs,  duties  and  perhaps  a fate 
That  brought  its  heaviest  trial  on  me  late. 

But  thou  art  young,  and  free  from  every  hin- 
drance ; 

The  wide  world  lies  before  thee ; press  thou  on 
And  get  salvation.  All  the  grief  thou  feelest 
Will  change  to  genuine  pleasure.  Hasten  forth ! 
Eugenie.  Explain  more  clearly  what  it  is 
thou  fearest. 

Monk.  In  darkness  comes  the  future  press- 
ing on  ; 

What  closest  lies  before  us  is  not  seen 
E’en  by  the  open  eyes  of  sense,  of  reason. 

If  I by  daylight  wander  through  these  streets 
In  wonder,  and  behold  the  splendid  buildings. 
The  solid  bulks  rocklike  with  lofty  towers. 

The  parks  with  palaces,  the  noble  churches, 
And  see  the  harbor  with  its  fleets  of  ships — 

It  all  appears  to  me  dispos’d  and  founded 
To  last  forever,  and  these  hurrying  throngs 
Of  busy  workers  rushing  on  and  on 


286 


In  ceaseless  waves  through  all  the  spaces  seem 
The  promise  of  eternal  lastingness. 

But  when  at  night  this  mighty  panorama 
Repasses  through  the  chambers  of  my  mind, 
Then  all  the  murky  air  is  fill’d  with  rumblings, 
The  solid  earth  gives  way,  the  towers  totter, 
The  fitted  stonework  falls,  and  all  the  glory 
Which  fill’d  the  scene  is  scatter’d  in  confusion. 
A few  sad  creatures  climb  the  hills  new  risen, 
And  every  heap  of  rubbish  marks  a tomb. 

A lessen’d  people,  hard-oppress’d,  no  more 
Are  able  to  restrain  the  elements ; 

And  with  its  restless  overflow  the  tide 
Fills  up  the  harbor  with  its  sand  and  slime. 
Eugenie.  Night  first  disarms  a man  and 
then  in  spite 

Subdues  him  with  her  idle  fantasies. 

Monk.  Ah  ! soon  enough  the  sun’s  face 
veil’d  in  sadness 

Comes  forth  to  look  upon  our  woful  plight. 
But  thou  must  go,  thou  whom  a kindly  spirit 
Bless’d  e’en  in  banishing.  Farewell  and  hasten ! 


SCENE  VIII. 

Eugenie.  From  selfish  sorrow  I am  led 
away 

And  others’  woes  are  plac’d  before  my  ken. 
Yet  does  it  not  concern  thee  what  shall  happen 
Unto  thy  fatherland?  With  added  weight 
This  settles  on  my  overburden’d  heart. 

Besides  the  present  evil  must  I bear 
The  imaginary  burdens  of  the  future  ? 

Then  it  is  true  what  e’en  in  childhood’s  days 
Rang  in  my  ears  unconscious,  what  I heard 
In  youth  and  question’d  and  at  last  have  learn’d 
From  truthful  lips  of  father  and  of  King : 

This  realm  is  threaten’d  with  a sudden  fall ; 
The  elements  once  fused  in  mighty  life 
No  longer  will  reciprocally  join 
With  force  of  love  in  unity  renew’d 
Continually.  Scattering,  forth  they  fly, 

/Vnd  each  returns  unto  itself  in  coldness. 
Where  was  the  mighty  spirit  of  our  fathers 
Which  for  one  purpose  brought  them  into  union 
That  hitherto  had  stood  apart  in  battle. 

And  which  before  this  mighty  people  became 
Personified  as  monarch  and  as  father? 

That  spirit  is  no  more.  What  now  remains 
Is  but  a spedtre  which  with  idle  striving 
Gropes  blindly,  hopelessly,  for  lost  possessions. 
And  could  I take  such  cares  across  with  me  ? 
Could  I withdraw  me  from  the  common  danger? 
Could  I negledl  the  chance  to  show  myself 


Of  courage  worthy  of  my  noble  sires. 

And  in  a time  of  trouble  by  my  aid 
Shame  him  who  has  unworthily  opiiress’d  me? 
Now,  O my  fatherland,  thy  sacred  soil 
Has  first  become  my  inspiration,  now 
I feel  for  the  first  time  the  pressing  call 
To  stand  by  thee  so  long  as  life  shall  last. 

I will  not  let  thee  go ; whate’er  the  bond 
That  binds  me  unto  thee  is  henceforth  holy. 
Where  shall  I find  that  noble-minded  man 
Who  offer’d  me  his  hand  so  honorably  ? 

To  him  I will  confide  my  life.  In  secret 
He  shall  preserve  me  as  a talisman  pure  ! 

For  if  a marvel  happens  on  the  earth 
It  happens  through  the  love  of  faithful  hearts. 
The  greatness  of  the  peril  I dismiss ; 

I do  not  dare  to  think  upon  my  weakness. 

A favorable  chance  when  times  are  ripe 
Shall  bring  to  lofty  purposes  the  whole. 

And  if  my  father,  if  my  King  forget  me 
Whom  once  they  banish’d  and  disown’d,  their 
eyes 

Astonish’d  shall  upon  me  rest,  preserv’d 
To  work  for  the  accomplishment  in  sorrow 
Of  what  in  fortune  she  had  vow’d  to  do. 

He  comes  ! With  more  delight  I see  him  now 
Than  when  he  left  me.  Seeking  me  he  comes  ! 
He  thinks  we  part ; I shall  remain  to  him. 


SCENE  IX. 

Eugenie.  Counsellor.  Boy  bearing  a 
beautiful  casket. 

Counsellor.  The  vessels  one  by  one  are 
putting  out 

,\nd  soon  I fear  me  wilt  thou  too  be  call’d. 

Receive  once  more  a hearty  “ Fare-thee-well  ” 

With  this  slight  gift  which  breathes  to  weary 
hearts 

Refreshment  for  the  long-continu’d  V03'age. 

Remember  me,  and  oh,  may  evil  days 

On  which  thou  yearnest  for  me  never  come. 

Eugenie.  With  pleasure  I accept  thy 
graceful  gift ; 

It  is  a pledge  to  me  of  loving  care ; 

Yet  send  it  quickly  to  thy  house  again. 

And  if  thou  thinkest  former  thoughts  and  feelest 

As  thou  hast  felt,  that  still  my  love  could  be 

A satisfadlion  to  thee,  I will  follow. 

Counsellor.  {After  a pause,  motioning 
tile  Boy  to  depart.)  Is’t  possible?  Has 
such  a sudden  change 

Brought  round  thy  will  to  answer  in  my  favor? 


287 


Eugenie.  My  will  is  chang’d  indeed;  but 
do  not  think 

That  apprehension  drove  me  back  to  thee. 

feeling  that  is  nobler  (let  me  hide  it) 
Preserves  me  for  my  fatherland,  for  thee. 

Now  let  the  question  come : Hast  thou  the 
courage, 

'I'he  lofty  courage  for  renunciation. 

To  vow  thyself  to  her  who  must  renounce  ? 
Canst  thou  agree  to  take  me,  as  a sister 
Is  taken  by  a brother,  in  pure  affection  ? 

And  wilt  thou  give  me  counsel  and  protedtion 
And  peaceful  home-life  in  return  for  love? 
Counsellor.  I think  that  I could  all  things 
bear  but  one — 

The  thought  of  losing  thee  now  I have  found 
thee 

Seems  unendurable  to  me.  To  see  thee. 

Near  thee  to  be,  for  thee  to  live,  I count 
My  sole,  my  highest  fortune.  Therefore  let 
Thy  heart  alone  be  privileg’d  to  set 
The  terms  of  the  alliance  which  we  pledge. 
Eugenie.  Henceforth,  the  world  avoiding, 
I must  live 

In  deep  seclusion  only  known  by  thee. 

If  thou  a distant  lonely  house  possessest. 

Then  give  it  me  and  send  me  thence  away. 
Counsellor.  small  estate  I own,  well- 
situated  ; 

Hut  old  and  half  in  ruins  is  the  house. 

Thou  canst  however  in  that  region  soon 
The  loveliest  dwelling  find  at  small  expense. 
Eugenie.  Nay!  let  me  settle  in  the  ancient 
ruin. 

It  suits  my  circumstances  and  my  mind. 

•\nd  when  my  fortune  brightens  I shall  find 
Material  and  time  for  busy  adtion. 

So  soon  as  I am  thine,  accompanied 
By  some  retainer,  old  and  firithful,  let  me 
There  find  a lonely  burial-place,  in  hope 
Soon  to  return  in  joyful  resurredlion. 

Counsellor.  When  can  I make  my  visit 
to  thee  there? 

Eugenie.  Thou  must  await  in  patience  till 
I summon. 

For  such  a day  will  come  to  us  perchance 
To  bind  us  closer  with  most  solemn  bonds. 


Counsellor.  Thou  layest  on  me  a burden  . 
all  too  heavy. 

Eugenie.  Eulfil  thy  obligations  unto  me  ; 
That  I acknowledge  mine  be  well  assur’d. 

Thou  darest  much  to  offer  me  thy  hand 
That  thou  may’st  save  me.  Should  I be  dis- 
cover’d. 

Too  soon  discover’d,  much  thou  mightest  suffer. 

I bid  thee  keep  the  wisest  circumspedlion  ; 

Let  no  one  learn  the  place  from  which  I 
came. 

Indeed  my  distant  lov’d  ones  I will  visit 
In  spirit  only.  Not  a single  line. 

No  messenger  shall  dare  to  name  me  there 
\\'here  for  my  rescue  glows  perchance  a spark. 
Counsellor.  In  this  momentous  crisis 
words  are  vain. 

.The  lips  can  often  counterfeit  with  boldness 
Disinterested  love,  when  in  the  heart 
The  monster,  selfishness,  is  grimly  lurking. 

The  power  of  love  is  shown  by  deeds  alone. 
Thus  while  I win  thee  I must  yield  up  all, 

Even  the  sight  of  thee.  I meet  the  test. 

Thy  image  ever  will  before  my  eyes 
Seem  as  it  seem’d  when  first  I saw  thy  face. 

An  objedt  of  attradlion  and  of  honor. 

Because  of  thee  I wish  to  live.  Thou  art 
My  mistress  and  my  queen.  And  if  the 
priest 

From  day  to  day  so  long  as  life  may  last 
Bows  low  before  the  God  he  cannot  see. 

Which  in  a moment  of  supreme  convidlion 
In  grand  ideal  swept  before  his  spirit. 

So  nothing  shall  destroy  henceforth  for  me. 
However  thou  may’st  hide  thyself  away, 

The  glory  thou  hast  shed  upon  my  life. 

Eugenie.  How  absolutely  I confide  in 
thee, 

.And  read  the  truthful  lineaments  of  thy  face. 
The  accents  of  thy  tongue  so  free  from  guile  ! 
How  sure  I am  of  what  a man  thou  art. 
Upright,  warm-hearted,  strong,  reliable  ! 

Here  have  the  proof  than  which  no  higher 
can  be 

By  any  woman  in  her  senses  given  : 

I linger  not,  I haste  to  follow  thee. 

Here  is  my  hand.  We  go  unto  the  altar ! 


288 


89 


I HAVE  carefully  colledled  whatever  I have 
been  able  to  learn  of  the  story  of  poor  Wer- 
ther,  and  here  present  it  to  you,  knowing  that 
you  will  thank  me  for  it.  To  his  spirit  and 
charadler  you  cannot  refuse  your  admiration 
and  love ; to  his  fate  you  will  not  deny  your 
tears. 

And  thou,  good  soul,  who  sufferest  the  same 
distress  as  he  once  endured,  draw  comfort  from 
his  sorrows ; and  let  this  little  book  be  thy 
friend,  if  from  fortune  or  thine  own  fault  thou 
canst  find  no  dearer  companion. 


290 


F'i  To-f'ht  JM- 


BOOK  I. 


May  yth. 

HAT  happiness  I experience 
to  be  away  ! My  dear  friend, 
what  a thing  is  the  heart  of 
man  ! To  leave  you,  from 
whom  I have  been  inseparable,  whom  I love 
so  dearly,  and  yet  to  feel  happy ! I know  yon 
will  forgive  me.  Have  not  other  attachments 
been  specially  appointed  by  fate  to  torment  a 
head  like  mine  ? Poor  Leonora  ! and  yet  I 
was  not  to  blame.  Was  it  my  fault  that  whilst 
the  peculiar  charms  of  her  sister  afforded  me 
an  agreeable  entertainment,  a passion  for  me 
was  engendered  in  her  feeble  heart  ? And 
yet  am  I wholly  blameless  ? Did  I not  en- 
courage her  emotions?  Did  I not  feel  charmed 
at  those  truly  genuine  expressions  of  nature, 
which,  though  but  little  mirthful  in  reality,  so 
often  amused  us?  Did  I not — But  oh,  what 
is  man  that  he  dares  so  to  accuse  himself? 
My  dear  friend,  I promise  you  I will  improve  ; 
I will  no  longer,  as  has  ever  been  my  habit, 
continue  to  ruminate  on  every  petty  vexation 
which  fortune  may  dispense  ; I will  enjoy  the 
present,  and  the  past  shall  be  for  me  the  past. 
You  are  doubtless  right,  my  best  of  friends, 
there  would  be  far  less  suffering  amongst  man- 
kind if  men — and  God  knows  why  they  are 
so  fashioned — did  not  employ  their  imagina- 
tions so  assiduously  in  recalling  the  memory 
of  past  sorrow,  instead  of  bearing  their  present 
lot  with  eriuanimity. 

Be  kind  enough  to  inform  my  mother  that 
I shall  attend  to  her  business  to  the  best  of 


my  ability,  and  shall  give  her  the  earliest  in- 
formation about  it.  I have  seen  my  aunt,  and 
find  her  very  far  from  the  disagreeable  person 
our  friends  allege  her  to  be.  She  is  a lively, 
cheerful  woman,  with  the  best  of  hearts.  I 
explained  to  her  my  mother’s  wrongs  with 
regard  to  that  j)art  of  her  portion  which  has 
been  withheld  from  her.  She  told  me  the 
motives  and  reasons  of  her  own  condudt,  and 
the  terms  upon  which  she  is  willing  to  give 
up  the  whole,  and  do  more  than  we  have 
asked.  In  short,  I cannot  write  further  upon 
this  subjedl  at  present,  only  assure  my  mother 
that  all  will  go  on  well.  And  I have  again 
observed,  my  dear  friend,  in  this  trifling  affair, 
that  misunderstandings  and  negledt  occasion 
more  mischief  in  the  world  than  even  malice 
and  wickedness.  At  all  events,  the  two  latter 
are  of  less  frequent  occurrence. 

In  other  respedls  I am  very  happy  here. 
Solitude  in  this  terrestrial  paradise  is  a genial 
balsam  to  my  mind,  and  the  young  Spring 
cheers  with  its  bounteous  promises  my  often- 
times misgiving  heart.  Plvery  tree,  every 
l)ush,  is  full  of  flowers,  and  one  might  wish 
himself  transformed  into  a butterfly,  to  float 
al)out  in  this  ocean  of  perfume  and  find  his 
whole  existence  therein. 

The  town  itself  is  disagreeable,  but  then 
all  around  you  find  an  inexpressible  beauty  of 

nature,  'bhis  induced  the  late  Count  M 

to  lay  out  a garden  on  one  of  the  sloping  hills 
which  here  intersedt  each  other  with  the  most 
charming  variety,  and  form  the  most  lovely 


291 


valleys^  The  garden  is  simple,  and  it  is  easy 
to  perceive,  even  upon  your  first  entrance, 
that  the  plan  was  not  designed  by  a scientific 
gardener,  but  by  a sensitive  heart,  who  wished 
here  to  study  its  own  enjoyment.  Many  a 
tear  have  I already  shed  to  the  memory  of  its 
departed  master  in  a summer-house,  now  re- 
duced to  ruins,  which  was  his  favorite  resort, 
and  is  now  mine.  I shall  soon  be  master  of 
the  place.  The  gardener  has  become  attached 
to  me  within  the  last  few  days,  and  he  will  be 
no  loser  thereby. 


May  loth. 

A wonderful  serenity  has  taken  possession 
of  my  entire  soul,  like  these  sweet  mornings 
of  spring  which  I enjoy  with  my  whole  heart. 
I am  alone  and  feel  the  charm  of  existence 
in  this  spot  which  was  created  for  the  bliss 
of  souls  like  mine.  I am  so  happy,  my  dear 
friend,  so  absorbed  in  the  exquisite  sense  of 
mere  tranquil  existence,  that  I negledl  my 
talents.  I should  be  incapable  of  drawing  a 
single  stroke  at  the  present  moment,  and  yet 
I feel  that  I never  was  a greater  artist  than 
now.  When  the  lovely  valley  teems  with 
vapor  around  me,  and  the  meridian  sun  strikes 
the  upper  surface  of  the  impenetrable  foliage 
of  my  trees,  and  but  a few  stray  gleams  steal 
into  the  inner  sanftuary,  then  I throw  myself 
down  in  the  tall  grass  by  the  trickling  stream, 
and  as  I lie  close  to  the  earth  a thousand  un- 
known plants  discover  themselves  to  me. 
When  I hear  the  buzz  of  the  little  world 
among  the  stalks,  and  grow  familiar  with  the 
countless  indescribable  forms  of  the  insedls 
and  flies,  then  I feel  the  presence  of  the 
.Almighty,  who  formed  us  in  His  own  image, 
and  the  breath  of  that  universal  love  which 
bears  and  sustains  us,  as  it  floats  round  us  in 
an  eternity  of  bliss;  and  then,  my  friend, 
when  darkness  overspreads  my  eyes,  and 
heaven  and  earth  seem  to  dwell  in  my  soul, 
and  absorb  its  power,  like  the  idea  of  a be- 
loved mistress,  then  I often  long  and  think  : 
Oh,  that  you  could  describe  these  concep- 
tions, that  you  could  impress  upon  paper  all 
that  lives  so  full  and  warm  within  you,  that 
it  might  be  the  mirror  of  your  soul,  as  your 
soul  is  the  mirror  of  the  infinite  God  ! O, 
my  friend — but  it  is  too  much  for  my  strength 
• — I sink  under  the  weight  of  the  grandeur  of 
these  visions. 


May  1 2 th. 

I know  not  whether  some  deceiving  spirits 
haunt  this  spot,  or  whether  it  be  the  warm 
celestial  fancy  in  my  own  heart,  which  makes 
everything  around  me  seem  like  paradise.  In 
front  of  the  house  is  a fountain — a fountain  to 
which  I am  bound  by  a charm  like  Melusina 
and  her  sisters.  Descending  a gentle  slope 
you  come  to  an  arch,  where,  some  twenty 
steps  lower  down,  water  of  the  clearest  crystal 
gushes  from  the  marble  rock.  The  narrow 
wall  which  encloses  it  above,  the  tall  trees 
which  encircle  the  spot,  and  the  coolness  of 
the  place  itself, — evert  thing  imparts  a pleasant 
but  sublime  impre.ssion.  Not  a day  passes  that 
I do  not  spend  an  hour  there.  The  young 
maidens  come  from  the  town  to  fetch  water, — 
innocent  and  necessary  employment,  and  for- 
merly the  occupation  of  the  daughters  of 
kings.  As  I take  my  rest  there  the  idea  of 
the  old  patriarchal  life  is  awakened  around 
me.  I see  them,  our  old  ancestors,  how  they 
formed  their  friendships  and  contradted  alli- 
ances at  the  fountain-side,  and  I feel  how 
fountains  and  streams  were  guarded  by  bene- 
ficent spirits.  He  who  is  a stranger  to  these 
sensations  has  never  really  enjoyed  cool  repose 
at  the  side  of  a fountain  after  the  fatigue  of  a 
weary  summer  day. 


May  ij///- 

You  ask  if  you  shall  send  me  books.  My 
dear  friend.  I beseech  you,  for  the  love  of 
God,  relieve  me  from  such  a yoke.  I need 
no  more  to  be  guided,  agitated,  heated.  My 
heart  ferments  sufficiently  of  itself  I want 
strains  to  lull  me,  and  I find  them  to  perfec- 
tion in  my  Homer.  Often  do  I strive  to  allay 
the  burning  fever  of  my  blood,  and  you  have 
never  witnessed  anything  so  unsteady,  so  un- 
certain, as  my  heart.  But  need  I confess  this 
to  you,  my  dear  friend,  who  have  so  often 
endured  the  anguish  of  witnessing  my  sudden 
transitions  from  sorrow  to  immoderate  joy, 
and  from  sweet  melancholy  to  violent  pas- 
sions? I treat  my  poor  heart  like  a sick  child, 
and  gratify  its  every  fancy.  Do  not  mention 
this  again  ; there  are  people  who  would  cen- 
sure me  for  it. 

Alay  \^th. 

I'he  common  people  of  the  place  know  me 
already,  and  -love  me,  particularly  the  chil- 


292 


dren.  At  first  when  I associated  with  them, 
and  inquired  in  a friendly  tone  about  their 
various  trifles,  some  fancied  that  I wished  to 
ridicule  them,  and  turned  from  me  in  exceed- 
ing ill-humor.  I did  not  allow  that  circum- 
stance to  grieve  me ; I only  felt  most  keenly 
what  I have  often  before  observed.  Persons 
of  some  pretension  to  rank  keep  themselves 
coldly  aloof  from  the  common  people,  as 
though  they  feared  to  lose  their  importance 
by  the  contadt,  whilst  wanton  idlers  and  poor 
pretenders  to  understanding  affedt  to  descend 
to  their  level  only  to  make  the  poor  people 
feel  their  impertinence  more  keenl)-. 

I know  very  well  that  we  are  not  and  cannot 
be  all  equal ; but  in  my  opinion  he  who  avoids 
the  common  people  in  order  to  command  their 
respedl,  is  as  culpable  as  a coward  who  hides 
himself  from  his  enemy  because  he  fears  defeat. 

The  other  day  I went  to  the  fountain,  and 
found  a young  servant-girl,  who  had  set  her 
pitcher  on  the  lowest  step,  and  looked  round 
to  see  if  one  of  her  companions  was  approach- 
ing to  place  it  on  her  head.  I ran  down  and 
looked  at  her.  “Shall  I help  you,  pretty 
lass?”  said  I.  She  blushed  deeply.  “O 
sir!”  she  exclaimed.  “No  ceremony!”  I 
replied.  She  placed  herself  properly,  and  I 
helped  her.  She  thanked  me,  and  went  up 
the  steps. 


May  lyfh. 

I have  made  all  sorts  of  acquaintance,  but 
as  yet  have  found  no  society.  I know  not 
what  attradlion  I possess  for  the  people,  so 
many  of  them  like  me  and  attach  themselves 
to  me,  and  then  I feel  sorry  when  our  road 
together  only  goes  a short  distance.  If  you 
inquire  what  the  people  are  like  here,  I must 
answer,  “The  same  as  everywhere!”  The 
human  race  is  but  a monotonous  affair.  Most 
of  them  labor  the  greater  part  of  their  time 
for  mere  subsistence,  and  the  small  portion  of 
freedom  which  remains  unemi)loyed  so  troubles 
them  that  they  use  every  exertion  to  get  rid  of 
it.  Oh,  the  destiny  of  man  ! 

But  they  are  a right  good  sort  of  jieople  ! 
If  I occasionally  forget  myself,  and  take  ])art 
in  the  innocent  jjleasures  which  are  not  yet 
forbidden  to  the  peasantry,  and  enjoy  myself, 
for  instance,  with  genuine  freedom  and  sin- 
cerity, round  a well-covered  table,  or  arrange 
an  excursion  or  dance  opportunely,  and  so 


forth,  all  this  jjroduces  a good  effedl  upon  my 
disposition  ; only  I must  forget  that  so  many 
other  qualities  lie  dormant  within  me,  whicli 
moulder  uselessly,  and  which  I^am  obliged  to 
keep  carefully  concealed.  Ah  ! this  thought 
affedls  my  spirits  fearfully.  And  yet  to  be 
misunderstood  is  the  fate  of  us  all. 

Alas,  that  the  friend  of  my  youth  is  gone  ! 
Alas,  that  I ever  knew  her  ! I might  say  to 
myself,  “You  are  a dreamer  to  seek  what  is 
not  to  be  found  here  below.”  But  she  has 
been  mine.  I have  possessed  that  heart,  that 
noble  soul,  in  whose  presence  I seemed  to  be 
more  than  I really  was,  because  I was  all  that 
I could  be.  Good  Heaven  ! did  a single 
power  of  my  soul  remain  then  unexercised  ? 
In  her  presence  could  I not  display  the  entire 
of  that  mysterious  feeling  with  which  my  heart 
embraces  nature  ? Was  not  our  intercourse  a 
perpetual  web  of  the  finest  emotions,  of  the 
keenest  wit,  whose  varieties,  even  in  their  ver\' 
eccentricity,  bore  the  stamp  of  genius?  Alas! 
the  'few  years  by  which  she  was  my  senior 
brought  her  to  the  grave  before  me.  Never 
can  I forget  her  strong  sense  or  her  heavenly 
patience. 

A few  days  ago  I met  a certain  young 

V , a frank  open  fellow,  with  a most  happy 

expression  of  face.  He  has  just  left  the  Uni- 
versity. He  does  not  fancy  himself  overwise, 
but  believes  he  knows  more  than  other  people. 
He  has  worked  hard,  as  I can  perceive  from 
many  circumstances,  and,  in  short,  possesses 
a large  stock  of  information.  When  he  heard 
that  I drew  a good  deal,  and  could  read  Greek 
(two  wonderful  things  for  this  part  of  the 
country),  he  came  to  see  me,  and  displayed 
his  whole  store  of  learning,  from  Batteaux  to 
Wood,  from  De  Piles  to  Winkelmann:  he  as- 
sured me  he  had  read  through  the  first  part  of 
Sultzer’s  theory,  and  also  possessed  a manu- 
script of  Heyne  on  the  study  of  the  antique. 
I allowed  it  all  to  pass. 

I have  become  acquainted  also  with  a very 
worthy  person,  the  distridl  judge,  a frank  and 
open-hearted  man.  I am  told  it  is  a most  de- 
lightful thing  to  see  him  in  the  midst  of  his 
children,  of  whom  he  has  nine.  His  eldest 
daughter  is  much  spoken  of.  He  has  invited 
me  to  go  and  see  him,  and  I intend  to  do  so 
the  first  opportunity.  He  lives  at  one  of  the 
royal  hunting-lodges,  an  hour  and  a half’s 
walk  from  hence,  which  he  obtained  leave  to 
inhabit  after  the  loss  of  his  wife,  as  his  resi- 
dence in  town  and  at  the  court  was  so  painful 
to  him. 


293 


A few  other  originals,  of  a questionable  sort, 
have  come  in  my  way,  who  are  in  all  respedls 
undesirable,  and  most  intolerable  in  their  de- 
monstrations of  friendship.  Good-bye.  This 
letter  will  please  you  : it  is  quite  a history. 


May  22d. 

That  the  life  of  man  is  but  a dream  is  the  ! 
opinion  of  many,  and  this  feeling  pursues  me 
everywhere.  When  I consider  the  narrow 
limits  within  which  our  adtive  and  inquiring 
faculties  are  confined, — when  I see  how  all 
our  energies  are  wasted  in  providing  for  mere  j 
necessities,  which  again  have  no  further  end 
than  to  prolong  a wretched  existence, — and 
then  that  all  our  satisfadlion  upon  certain  sub-  | 
jedls  of  investigation  ends  in  nothing  better 
than  a passive  resignation,  whilst  we  amuse 
ourselves  with  painting  our  prison-walls  with 
bright  figures  and  brilliant  landscapes, — when 
I consider  all  this,  Wilhelm,  I am  .silent.  I 
examine  my  own  being,  and  find  there  a world, 
but  a world  rather  of  imagination  and  dim  de- 
sires, than  of  distindtness  and  living  power. 
Then  everything  swims  before  m'y  senses;  I 
smile  and  dream  my  way  back  into  existence. 

All  learned  professors  and  dodlors  are 
agreed  that  children  do  not  comprehend  the 
cause  of  their  desires ; but  that  grown  people 
should  wander  about  this  earth  like  children, 
without  knowing  whence  they  come  or  whither 
they  go,  influenced  as  little  by  fixed  motives, 
but  guided  like  them  by  biscuits,  sugar-plums 
and  chastisements, — this  is  what  nobody  is 
willing  to  acknowledge,  and  yet  I think  it  can 
be  made  palpable. 

I know  what  you  will  say  in  reply,  and  I am 
ready  to  admit,  that  the  happiest  are  those  who, 
like  children,  amuse  themselves  with  their  play- 
things, dress  and  undress  their  dolls,  and  at-  | 
tentively  watch  the  cupboard  where  mamma 
has  locked  her  sweet  things,  and  when  at  last 
they  get  a delicious  morsel,  eat  it  greedily  and 
cry  for  more.  The.se  are  certainly  hap])y  be- 
ings; but  others  also  are  objedls  of  envy,  who 
dignify  their  paltry  employments,  and  some- 
times even  their  passions,  with  pompous  titles, 
representing  them  to  mankind  as  achievements 
of  a superior  order,  accomplished  for  their 
welfare  and  glory.  But  the  man  who  humbly 
acknowledges  the  vanity  of  all  this,  who  ob- 
serves with  what  pleasure  the  thriving  citizen 


converts  his  little  garden  into  a paradise,  and 
how  patiently  even  the  poor  man  pursues  his 
' weary  way  under  his  burden,  and  how  all  wish 
I equally  to  behold  the  light  of  the  sun  a little 
longer — yes,  such  a man  is  at  peace,  and 
creates  his  own  world  within  himself ; and  he 
is  also  happy,  because  he  is  a man.  And  then, 
however  limited  his  sphere,  he  still  preserves 
in  his  bosom  the  sweet  feeling  of  liberty,  and 
I knows  that  when  he  will  he  can  burst  his  prison. 


May  26th. 

You  know  of  old  my  ways  of  finding  amuse- 
ment ; how  I seledt  a little  cottage  in  some 
sequestered  spot,  and  there  put  up  with  every 
inconvenience.  I have  just  discovered  such  a 
spot  here  which  possesses  peculiar  charms  for 
me. 

About  a league  from  the  town  is  a place 
called  Walheim.*  It  is  delightfully  situated 
on  the  side  of  a hill,  and  by  proceeding  along 
one  of  the  footpaths  which  lead  out  of  the 
village  you  can  have  a view  of  the  whole 
valley.  A good  old  woman  lives  there  who 
keeps  a small  inn.  She  sells  wine,  beer  and 
coffee,  and  is  cheerful  and  pleasant  notwith- 
standing her  age.  The  chief  charm  of  this 
spot  consists  in  two  linden  trees,  which  spread 
their  enormous  branches  over  the  little  green 
before  the  church,  which  is  entirely  surrounded 
by  peasants’  cottages,  with  their  barns  and 
homesteads.  I have  seldom  seen  a place  so 
retired  and  peaceable,  and  I often  have  my 
table  and  chair  brought  out  from  the  little 
inn,  and  there  I drink  my  coffee  and  read  my 
Homer.  Accident  brought  me  to  the  spot 
one  fine  afternoon,  and  I found  it  perfectly 
deserted.  Everybody  was  in  the  fields,  except 
a little  boy  about  four  years  old,  who  was 
sitting  on  the  ground  and  held  between  his 
knees  a child  about  six  months  old ; he  pressed 
it  to  his  bosom  with  both  arms,  which  thus 
formed  a sort  of  arm-chair,  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  liveliness  which  sparkled  in  its  black 
eyes  it  remained  perfedtly  still.  The  sight 
charmed  me.  I sat  down  upon  a plough 
opposite,  and  .sketched  with  great  delight  this 
little  pidture  of  brotherly  tenderness.  I added 


* The  reader  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  look  for 
the  place  thus  designated.  We  have  found  it  necessary 
to  change  the  names  as  they  stood  in  the  original. 


294 


the  neighboring  hedge,  the  barn-door  and 
some  broken  cart-wheels,  just  as  they  happened 
to  lie  ; and  I found  in  about  an  hour  that  I 
had  made  a very  corredl  and  interesting  draw- 
ing, without  putting  in  the  slightest  thing  of 
my  own.  This  confirmed  me  in  my  resolution 
of  adhering  for  the  future  entirely  to  nature. 
She  alone  is  inexhaustible,  and  capable  of 
forming  the  greatest  masters.  Much  may  be 
alleged  in  favor  of  rules,  as  much  may  be  like- 
wise advanced  in  favor  of  the  laws  of  society ; 
an  artist  formed  upon  them  will  never  produce 
anything  absolutely  bad  or  disgusting,  as  a 
man  who  observes  the  laws  and  obeys  de- 
corum can  never  be  an  absolutely  intolerable 
neighbor,  nor  a decided  villain  ; but  yet  say 
what  you  will  of  rules,  they  destroy  the  genu- 
ine feeling  of  nature  as  well  as  its  true  ex- 
pression. Do  not  tell  me  “that  this  is  too 
hard,  that  they  only  restrain  and  prune  super- 
fluous branches,  etc.”  My  good  friend,  I will 
illustrate  this  by  an  analogy.  These  things 
resemble  love.  A warm-hearted  youth  be- 
comes strongly  attached  to  a maiden,  he 
spends  every  hour  of  the  day  in  her  company. 


wears  out  his  health,  and  lavishes  his  fortune, 
to  afford  continual  ju'oof  that  he  is  wholly 
devoted  to  her.  Then  comes  a man  of  the 
world,  a man  of  place  and  respedlability,  and 
addresses  him  thus:  “ My  good  young  friend, 
love  is  natural,  but  you  must  love  within  bounds. 
Divide  your  time,  devote  a portion  to  business, 
and  give  the  hours  of  recreation  to  your  mis- 
tress. Calculate  your  fortune,  and  out  of  the 
superfluity  you  may  make  her  a present,  only 
not  too  often,  on  her  birthday  and  such  occa- 
sions.” Pursuing  this  advice  he  may  become 
a useful  member  of  society,  and  I should  ad- 
! vise  some  prince  to  give  him  an  appointment ; 
but  his  love  is  annihilated,  and  if  he  be  an 
artist,  his  genius  is  fled.  Oh,  my  friends,  why 
is  it  that  the  torrent  of  genius  so  seldom  bursts 
forth,  so  seldom  rolls  in  full  flowing  stream, 
overwhelming  your  wondering  soul?  Because, 
on  either  side  of  this  stream,  cold  and  respedl- 
able  persons  have  taken  up  their  abodes,  and 
forsooth  their  summer-houses  and  tulip-beds 
would  suffer  from  the  torrent,  wherefore  they 
dig  trenches  and  raise  embankments  betimes 
in  order  to  avert  the  impending  danger. 


295 


Mixy  2’jth. 

I find  I have  fallen  into  raptures,  declama- 
tion and  similes,  and  have  forgotten  in  con- 
sequence to  tell  you  what  became  of  the  chil- 
dren. Absorbed  in  my  artistic  contempla- 
tions, which  1 briefly  described  in  my  letter 
of  yesterday,  I continued  sitting  on  the  plough 
for  two  hours.  Towards  evening  a young 
woman,  with  a basket  on  her  arm,  came  run- 
ning towards  the  children,  who  had  not  moved 
all  that  time.  She  exclaimed,  from  a distance, 
“ You  are  a good  bo}',  Philip.”  She  saluted 
me ; I returned  it,  rose  and  approached  her. 

I inquired  if  she  was  the  mother  of  those  prett\- 
children?  “Yes,”  she  said  ; and,  giving  the 
eldest  a piece  of  bread,  she  took  the  little  one 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  it  with  a mother’s  ten- 
derness. “I  left  my  child  with  Philip  to  take 
care  of,”  she  said,  “whilst  I went  into  the 
town  with  my  eldest  boy  to  buy  some  white 
bread,  some  sugar,  and  an  earthen  pot.”  I 
saw  the  various  articles  in  the  basket,  from 
which  the  cover  had  fiillen.  “I  shall  make 
some  broth  to-night  for  my  little  Hans  (which 
was  the  name  of  the  youngest) ; that  wild 
fellow,  the  big  one,  broke  the  pot  for  me 
yesterday,  whilst  he  was  scrambling  with  Philip 
for  what  remained  of  the  contents.”  I in- 
quired for  the  eldest,  and  she  had  scarcely 
time  to  tell  me  that  he  was  driving  a couple 
of  geese  home  from  the  meadow  when  he  ran 
up,  and  handed  Philijian  ozier-twig.  I talked 
a little  longer  with  the  woman,  and  found  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  and 
that  her  husband  was  gone  on  a journey  into 
Switzerland  for  some  money  a relation  had  left 
him.  “They  wanted  to  cheat  him,”  she 
said,  “and  would  not  answer  his  letters,  so  he 
is  gone  there  himself ; I hope  he  has  met  with 
no  accident  as  I have  heard  nothing  of  him 
since  his  departure.”  I left  the  woman  with 
regret,  giving  each  of  the  children  a kreutzer, 
with  an  additional  one  for  the  youngest,  to 
buy  some  white  bread  for  his  broth  when  she 
went  to  town  next,  and  so  we  parted. 

I assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  when  my 
thoughts  are  all  in  tumult,  the  sight  of  such 
a creature  as  this  tranquillizes  my  disturbed 
mind.  She  moves  in  a happy  thoughtlessness 
within  the  confined  circle  of  her  existence; 
she  supplies  her  wants  from  day  to  day ; and 
when  she  sees  the  leaves  fall  they  raise  no 
other  idea  in  her  mind  than  that  winter  is 
approaching. 

Since  that  time  I have  gone  out  there  fre- 


C[uently.  The  children  have  become  (juite 
I familiar  with  me ; and  each  gets  a lumj)  of 
sugar  when  1 drink  my  coffee,  and  they  share 
* my  milk  and  bread  and  butter  in  th.e  evening. 

I They  always  receive  their  kreutzer  on  Sun- 
days, for  when  J do  not  go  there  after  evening 
service  the  good  woman  has  orders  to  give  it 
to  them. 

They  are  cjuile  at  home  with  me,  tell  me 
everything,  and  I am  particuhn  ly  amused  with 
ob.serving  their  tempei's,  and  the  simplicity  of 
their  behavior  when  some  of  the  other  village 
children  are  assembled  with  them. 

It  has  given  me  a deal  of  trouble  to  satisfy 
the  anxiety  of  the  mother,  lest  (as  she  says) 
“the)'  should  inconvenience  the  gentleman.” 


May  jotJi. 

What  I have  lately  said  of  painting  is  equally 
true  with  respect  to  poetry.  It  is  only  neces- 
sary for  us  to  know  what  is  really  excellent, 

1 and  venture  to  give  it  expression,  and  that  is 
saying  much  in  few  words.  To-da\'  I have 
had  a scene,  which  if  literally  related,  would 
I make  the  most  beautiful  id\l  in  the  world. 

But  why  should  I talk  of  poetry  and  scenes 
' and  idyls?  Can  we  never  take  pleasure  in 
nature  without  requiring  the  assistance  of 
i art? 

1 If  you  expedl  anything  grand  or  magni- 
ficent from  this  introduction  )ou  will  be  sadly 
mistaken.  It  relates  merely  to  a ]reasant  lad 
who  has  excited  in  me  the  warmest  interest. 
As  usual,  I shall  tell  my  story  badly;  and  you, 
as  usual,  will  think  me  extra\-agant.  It  is 
'Walheim  once  more — ab\  a\s  Walheim — which 
produces  these  wonders. 

A party  had  assembled  outside  the  house 
under  the  linden  trees  to  drink  coffee.  The 
company  did  not  cxaCtly  ]ilease  me,  and  under 
one  pretext  or  another  I lingered  liehind. 

A jreasant  came  from  an  adjoining  house 
and  set  to  work  arranging  some  part  of  the 
same  plough  which  I had  lately  sketched.  His 
ajjpearance  ])leased  me,  and  I spoke  to  him — 
inqtiired  about  his  circumstances,  made  his 
acquaintance,  and,  as  is  usual  with  me  amongst 
jiersons  of  that  class,  was  soon  admitted  into 
ids  confidence.  He  said  he  was  servant  to  a 
young  widow  with  whom  he  was  in  high 
favor.  He  spoke  so  much  of  his  mistress, 
and  praised  her  so  extravagantly,  that  I could 


296 


soon  see  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her. 
“She  is  no  longer  young,”  he  said;  “and 
she  was  treated  so  badly  by  .her  former  hus- 
band that  she  does  not  mean  to  marry  again.” 
From  his  account  it  was  plain  she  possessed 
incomparable  charms  for  him,  and  that  he 
wished  ardently  she  would  seledt  him  to  ex- 
tinguish the  recolledtion  of  her  first  husband’s 
ill  condubl.  But  I should  repeat  his  own 
words  to  describe  the  depth  of  the  poor 
fellow’s  attachment,  truth  and  devotion.  It 
would,  in  fadl,  require  the  gifts  of  a great 
poet  to  convey  the  expression  of  his  features, 
the  harmony  of  his  voice,  and  the  heavenly 
fire  of  his  eye.  No  words  can  portray  the 
tenderness  of  his  every  movement,  and  of 
every  feature : no  effort  of  mine  could  do 
justice  to  the  scene.  His  alarm  lest  I should 
misconceive  his  relation  towards  his  mistress, 
or  question  the  propriety  of  her  condudl, 
particularly  touched  me.  The  charming  man- 
ner with  which  he  described  her  form  and  her 
person,  which,  without  possessing  the  graces 
of  youth,  won  and  attached  him  to  her,  is 
inexpressible,  and  must  be  left  to  the  imagina- 
tion. 1 have  never  in  my  life  witnessed,  or 
fancied,  or  conceived  the  possibility  of  such 
intense  devotion,  such  ardent  affedlions  united 
with  so  much  purity.  Do  not  blame  me  if  I 
say  that  the  recolledlion  of  this  innocence 
and  truth  is  deeply  impressed  upon  my  very 
soul ; that  this  pidture  of  fidelity  and  tender- 
ness haunts  me  incessantly,  and  that  my  own 
heart,  enkindled  by  the  flame,  glows  and  burns 
within  me. 

I mean  now  to  try  and  see  her  as  soon  as  I 
can,  or,  perhaps,  on  second  thoughts,  I had 
better  not.  It  is  better  I should  behold  her 
through  the  eyes  of  her  lover.  To  my  sight, 
perhaps,  she  would  not  appear  as  she  now 
stands  before  me ; and  why  should  I destroy 
so  sweet  a picture  ? 


June  1 6th. 

“Why  do  I not  write  to  you?”  You  pre- 
tend to  penetration  and  ask  such  a question. 
You  should  have  guessed  that  I was  well,  but 
that — in  a word,  I have  made  an  acquaintance 
who  has  won  my  heart ; I have  found — I know 
not  what. 

To  give  you  a regular  account  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  I have  become  acquainted  with 
the  most  amiable  of  women  would  be  a dif- 


ficult task.  I am  a happy  and  contented 
mortal,  but  a poor  historian. 

An  angel  ! Nonsense  ! Everybody  so  de- 
scribes his  mistress ; and  yet  I find  it  impos- 
sible to  tell  you  how  perfecft  she  is,  or  why  she 
is  so  perfedt ; enough  to  say  she  has  captivated 
all  my  senses. 

So  much  simplicity  with  so  much  under- 
standing— so  mild,  and  yet  so  resolute — a 
mind  so  placid,  and  a life  so  adlive. 

But  this  is  all  mere  commonplace  abstradl 
ideas  which  express  no  single  charadler  or 
feature.  Some  other  time — but  no,  not  some 
other  time,  but  now,  this  very  instant,  will  I 
tell  you  all  about  it.  Now  or  never.  Well, 
between  ourselves,  since  I commenced  my  let- 
ter, I have  been  on  the  point  three  times  of 
throwing  down  my  pen,  ordering  my  horse, 
and  riding  out.  And  yet  I vowed  this  morn- 
ing that  I would  not  ride  to-day,  and  I run 
every  moment  to  the  window  to  see  how  high 
the  sun  is. 

I could  not  restrain  myself — go  to  her  I 
must.  I have  just  returned,  Wilhelm,  and 
whilst  I am  taking  supper  I will  write  to  you. 
What  a delight  it  was  for  my  soul  to  see  her 
in  the  midst  of  her  dear,  beautiful  children — 
eight  brothers  and  sisters  ! 

But  if  I proceed  thus  you  will  be  no  wiser 
at  the  end  of  my  letter  than  you  were  at  the 
beginning.  Attend  then,  and  I will  compel 
myself  to  give  you  the  details. 

I mentioned  to  you  the  other  day  that  I had 

become  acquainted  with  S , the  district 

judge,  and  that  he  had  invited  me  to  go  and 
visit  him  in  his  retirement,  or  rather  in  his 
little  kingdom.  But  I negledled  going,  and 
perhaps  should  never  have  gone  if  chance  had 
not  discovered  to  me  the  treasure  which  lay 
concealed  in  that  retired  spot.  Some  of  our 
young  people  had  proposed  giving  a ball  in 
the  country,  at  which  I consented  to  be  present. 
I offered  my  hand  for  the  evening  to  a pretty 
and  agreeable,  but  rather  commonplace  sort 
of  girl  from  the  immediate  neighborhood  ; 
and  it  was  agreed  that  I should  engage  a car- 
riage, and  call  upon  Charlotte,  with  my  partner 
and  her  aunt,  to  convey  them  to  the  ball.  My 
companion  informed  me,  as  we  drove  along 
through  the  park  to  the  hunting-lodge,  that  I 
should  make  the  acquaintance  of  a very  charm- 
ing young  lady.  “Take  care,”  added  the 
aunt,  “that  you  do  not  lose  your  heart.” 
“Why?”  said  I.  “Because  she  is  already 
engaged  to  a very  worthy  man,”  she  replied. 


297 


•‘who  is  gone  to  settle  liis  affairs  upon  the 
death  of  his  father,  and  will  succeed  to  a very 
considerable  inheritance.”  This  information 
possessed  no  interest  for  me.  When  we  ar- 
rived at  the  gate  the  sun  was  setting  behind 
the  tops  of  the  mountains.  The  atmosphere 
was  heavy,  and  the  ladies  expressed  their  fears 
of  an  approaching  storm,  as  masses  of  low 
black  clouds  were  gathering  in  the  horizon. 
I relieved  their  anxieties  by  pretending  to  be 
weather-wise,  although  I myself  had  some  ap- 
prehensions lest  our  pleasure  should  be  inter- 
rupted. 

I alighted,  and  a maid  came  to  the  door 
and  begged  us  to  wait  a moment  for  her  mis- 
tress. 1 walked  across  the  court  to  a well- 
built  house,  and  ascending  the  flight  of  steps 
in  front,  opened  the  door,  and  saw  before  me 
the  most  charming  spedlacle  I had  ever  wit- 
nessed. Six  children,  from  eleven  to  two 
years  old,  were  running  about  the  hall,  and 
surrounding  a lady  of  middle  height,  with  a 
lovely  figure,  dressed  in  a robe  of  simple 
white,  trimmed  with  pink  ribbons.  She  held 
a brown  loaf  in  her  hand,  and  was  cutting 
slices  for  the  little  ones  all  round  in  proitortion 
to  their  age  and  aj'petite.  She  jterformed  her 
task  in  a graceful  and  affedlionate  manner, 
each  claimant  awaiting  his  turn  with  out- 
stretched hands,  atid  boisterously  shouting 
his  thanks.  Some  of  them  ran  away  at  once 
to  enjoy  their  evening  meal,  whilst  others  of 
a gentler  disposition  retired  to  the  courtyard 
to  see  the  stranger,  atjd  survey  the  carriage 
which  was  to  carry  away  their  Charlotte. 
“ Pray  forgive  me  for  giving  you  the  trouble 
to  come  for  me,  and  for  keejnng  the  ladies 
waiting,  but  dressing  and  the  arranging  some 
household  duties  before  I leave  had  made  me 
forget  my  children’s  supper,  and  they  do  not 
like  to  take  it  from  any  one  but  me.”  I 
uttered  some  unmeaning  compliment,  but  my 
whole  soul  was  absorbed  b\'  her  air,  her  voice, 
her  manner,  and  I had  scarcely  recovered  my- 
self when  she  ran  into  her  room  to  fetch  her 
gloves  and  fan.  The  young  ones  threw  in- 
quiring glances  at  me  from  a distance,  whilst 
I approached  the  youngest,  a most  delicious 
little  creature.  He  drew  back,  and  Charlotte 
entering  at  the  very  moment,  said,  “Louis, 
shake  hands  with  your  cousin.”  The  little 
fellow  obeyed  willingly,  and  I could  not  resist 
giving  him  a hearty  kiss.  “Cousin,”  said  I 
to  Charlotte  as  I handed  her  down,  “do  you 
think  I deserve  the  happiness  of  being  related 
to  you?”  She  replied,  with  an  arch  smile, 


“Oh,  I have  such  a number  of  cousins  that 
I should  be  sorry  if  you  were  the  most  unde- 
serving of  them.”  In  taking  leave  she  de- 
sired her  next  sister,  Sophy,  a girl  about  eleven 
years  old,  to  take  great  care  of  the  children, 
and  to  sa\'  good-bye  to  papa  for  her  when  he 
came  home  from  his  ride.  She  desired  the 
little  ones  to  obey  their  sister  Sophy  as  they 
would  herself,  ui)on  which  some  promised  that 
they  would,  but  a litlle  fair-haired  girl,  about 
six  years  old,  looked  discontented,  and  said, 
“But  Sophy  is  not  you,  Charlotte,  and  we  like 
you  best.”  The  two  eldest  boys  had  clam- 
bered uj)  the  carriage,  and  at  my  request  sl.e 
permitted  them  to  accompany  us  a little  way 
through  the  forest,  upon  their  promising  to  sit 
very  still  and  hold  fast. 

We  were  hardly  seated,  and  the  ladies  had 
scarcely  exchanged  compliments,  making  the 
usual  remarks  upon  each  other’s  dress,  and 
upon  the  company  they  expedied  to  meet, 
when  Charlotte  stoi)ped  the  carriage  and  made 
her  brothers  get  down.  They  insisted  upon 
kissing  her  hands  once  more,  which  the  eldest 
did  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a youth  of 
fifteen,  but  the  other  in  a lighter  and  more 
careless  manner.  She  desired  them  again 
to  give  her  love  to  the  children,  and  we 
drove  off. 

The  aunt  inquired  of  Charlotte  whether  she 
had  finished  the  book  she  had  last  sent  her. 
“No,”  said  Charlotte;  “1  did  not  like  it; 
you  can  have  it  agaiti ; and  the  one  before 
was  not  much  better.”  I was  surprised,  upon 

asking  the  title,  to  hear  that  it  was .*  I 

found  penetration  and  charadter  in  everything 
she  said  ; every  expresston  seemed  to  brighten 
her  features  with  new  charms — with  new'  rays 
of  genius — which  unfolded  by  degrees,  as  she 
felt  herself  understood. 

“When  I was  younger,”  she  observed,  “I 
loved  trothing  so  much  as  romances.  Nothing 
could  eqital  my  delight  when,  on  some  holi- 
day, I could  settle  down  quietly  in  a corner, 
and  enter  with  my  whole  htart  and  soul  into 
the  joys  or  sorrows  of  some  fidlitious  Leonora. 
I do  not  deny  that  they  eveti  jtossess  some 
charms  for  me  yet.  But  1 read  .so  seldom, 
that  I jtrefer  books  sitited  exadlly  to  m}-  taste. 
And  I like  those  authors  best  whose  scenes 
describe  my  own  situation  in  life,  and  the 
friends  who  are  about  me,  whose  stories  touch 

* We  feel  oblP^ed  to  suppress  the  passage  in  the  let- 
ter to  prevent  any  one  from  feeling  aggrieved  ; although 
no  author  need  pay  much  attention  to  the  opinion  of  a 
mere  girl,  or  that  of  an  unsteady  young  man. 


artist:  C.  BOSCH. 

CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  SISTERS. 


me  with  interest,  from  resembling  my  own 
homely  existence,  which,  without  being  abso- 
lutely paradise,  is  on  the  whole  a source  of 
indescribable  happiness.” 

I endeavored  to  conceal  the  emotion  which 
these  words  occasioned,  but  it  did  not  last 
long,  for  when  she  had  expressed  her  opinion 
truly  and  beautifully  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field, and  of  other  works,  whose  names  I 
omit,*  I could  no  longer  contain  myself,  but 
gave  utterance  to  all  my  own  thoughts  on  the 
subjedl  ; and  it  was  not  until  Charlotte  had 
addressed  herself  to  the  two  other  ladies  that 
I remembered  their  presence,  and  observed 
them  sitting  mute  with  astonishment.  The 
aunt  looked  at  me  several  times  with  an  air 
of  raillery,  which,  however,  I did  not  at  all 
mind. 

We  talked  of  the  pleasures  of  dancing. 
“If  it  is  a fault  to  love  it,”  said  Charlotte, 
“I  confess  myself  extremely  guilty,  as  no 
amusement  is  more  agreeable  to  me.  If  any- 
thing disturbs  me  I go  to  the  piano,  play  an 
air  to  which  I have  danced,  and  all  goes  right 
again  diredlly.” 

You  who  know  me  can  fancy  how  stead- 
fastly I gazed  upon  her  rich  dark  eyes  during 
these  remarks  ; liow  my  very  soul  gloated  over 
her  warm  lips  and  fresh  glowing  cheeks  ; how 
I became  lost  in  the  delightful  meaning  of 
her  words,  to  such  a degree  that  I scarcely 
heard  the  adlual  expressions.  In  fine,  I 
alighted  from  the  carriage  like  a person  in  a 
dream,  and  was  so  lost  to  the  dim  world 
around  me  that  I scarcely  heard  the  music 
which  resounded  from  the  illuminated  saloon. 

The  two  Messrs.  Andran  and  a certain  N. 
N., — (I  cannot  trouble  myself  with  the 
names) — ^who  were  the  aunt’s  and  Charlotte’s 
partners,  received  us  at  the  carriage  door  and 
took  possession  of  their  ladies,  whilst  I fol- 
lowed with  mine. 

We  commenced  with  a minuet.  I led  out 
one  lady  after  another,  and  precisely  those 
who  were  the  most  disagreeable  could  not 
bring  themselves  to  leave  off.  Charlotte  and 
her  partner  began  an  English  country-dance, 
and  you  must  imagine  my  delight  when  it 
came  to  their  turn  to  dance  the  figure  with  us. 
You  should  see  Charlotte  dance.  She  dances 
with  her  wliole  heart  and  soul  ; her  figure  is 


* Thougli  the  names  are  omitted,  yet  tlie  authors 
mentioned  deserve  Charlotte’s  apjrroliation,  and  will 
feel  it  in  their  hearts  when  they  read  this  passage.  It 
concerns  no  other  person. 


all  harmony,  elegance  and  grace,  as  if  she 
were  conscious  of  nothing  else,  and  had  no 
other  thought  or  feeling,  and  doubtless  for  the 
moment  every  other  sensation  is  extindl. 

She  was  engaged  for  the  second  country- 
dance,  but  she  promised  me  the  third,  and  she 
assured  me,  with  the  most  agreeable  freedom, 
that  she  was  very  fond  of  waltzing.  “It  is 
the  custom  here,”  she  said,  “for  the  previous 
partners  to  waltz^  together  ; but  my  partner  is 
an  indifferent  waltzer,  and  will  feel  delighted 
if  I save  him  the  trouble.  Your  partner  is 
not  allowed  to  waltz,  and  indeed  is  equally 
incapable ; but  I observed  during  the  country- 
dance  that  you  waltz  well,  so  if  you  will 
waltz  with  me  I beg  you  to  propose  it  to  my 
partner,  and  I will  propose  it  to  yours.”  We 
agreed,  and  it  was  arranged  that  our  partners 
should  mutually  entertain  each  other. 

We  set  off,  and  at  first  delighted  ourselves 
with  the  usual  graceful  motions  of  the  arms. 
With  what  grace,  with  what  ease  she  moved  ! 
When  the  waltz  commenced,  and  the  dancers 
whirled  round  each  other  in  the  giddy  maze, 
there  was  a little  confusion  arising  from  the 
incapacity  of  some.  But  we  judiciously  re- 
mained still,  allowing  the  others  to  weary 
themselves,  and  when  the  awkward  dancers 
had  withdrawn  we  joined  in  and  kept  it  up 
famously  together  with  one  other  couple, 
Andran  and  his  partner.  Never  did  I dance 
more  lightly.  I felt  myself  more  than  mortal, 
holding  this  loveliest  of  creatures  in  my  arms, 
flying  with  her  as  rapidly  as  the  wind,  till  I 
lo.st  sight  of  every  other  objedi ; and,  O 
Wilhelm,  I vowed  at  that  moment  that  a 
maiden  whom  I loved,  or  for  whom  I felt  the 
slightest  attachment,  never,  never  should  waltz 
with  another  than  with  me,  if  I went  to  per- 
dition for  it — you  will  understand  this. 

We  took  a few  turns  in  the  room  to  recover 
our  breath.  Charlotte  sat  down  and  felt  re- 
freshed by  partaking  of  some  oranges,  which 
I had  privately  brought  with  me,  and  were 
difficult  to  procure  ; but  every  slice  which  she 
kindly  offered  to  her  neighbors  was  a dagger 
to  my  heart. 

We  were  the  second  couple  in  the  third 
country-dance.  As  we  were  going  down  (and 
Heaven  knows  with  what  ecstasy  I gazed  upon 
her  arms  and  her  eyes,  which  beamed  with  the 
sweetest  feeling  of  pure  and  genuine  enjoy- 
ment), we  passed  a lady  whom  I had  noticed 
for  her  charming  expression  of  countenance, 
although  she  was  no  longer  young.  She  looked 
at  Charlotte  with  a smile  ; then  holding  up 


299 


her  finger  in  a threatening  attitude,  repeated 
twice,  in  a very  significant  tone  of  voice,  the 
name  of  “Albert.” 

“Who  is  Albert,”  said  I to  Charlotte,  “ if 
it  is  not  impertinent  to  ask?”  She  was  about 
to  answer,  when  we  were  obliged  to  separate 
by  a figure  in  the  dance,  and  as  we  crossed 
over  again  in  front  of  each  other  I perceived 
she  looked  a little  jiensive.  “ W'hy  need  I 
conceal  it  from  you?”  she  said,  as  she  gave 
me  her  hand  for  the  promenade — “Albert  is  a 
worthy  man  to  whom  I am  engaged.”  Now 
there  was  nothing  new  to  me  in  this  (for  the 
girls  had  told  me  of  it  on  the  way),  but  it  was 
so  far  new  that  I had  not  thought  of  it  in  con- 
nedlion  with  her,  whom  in  so  short  a time  I 
had  learned  to  prize  so  highly.  Enough,  I 
became  confused,  got  out  in  the  figure,  and 
occasioned  general  confusion,  so  that  it  re- 
quired all  Charlotte’s  presence  of  mind  to  set 
me  right,  by  jiulling  and  pushing  me  into  my 
proper  place. 

d’he  dance  was  not  yet  finished  when  the 
lightning,  which  had  for  some  time  been  seen 
in  the  horizon,  and  which  I had  asserted  to 
proceed  entirely  from  heat,  grew  more  violent, 
and  the  thunder  was  heard  above  the  music. 
When  any  distress  or  terror  surprises  us  in  the  | 


midst  of  our  amusements  it  naturally  makes 
a deeper  impression  than  at  other  times,  either 
because  the  contrast  makes  us  more  keenly 
susceptible,  or  rather  perhaps  because  our 
senses  are  then  more  open  to  impressions,  and 
the  shock  is  consequently  stronger.  To  this 
cause  I must  ascribe  the  fright  and  shrieks  of 
the  ladies.  One  sagaciously  sat  down  in  a 
corner  with  her  back  to  the  window  and  held 
her  fingers  to  her  ears;  a second  knelt  down 
before  her  and  hid  her  face  in  her  lap ; a 
third  threw  herself  between  them  and  em- 
braced her  sister  with  a thousand  tears  ; some 
j insisted  uj)on  going  home;  others,  unconscious 
of  their  adtions,  wanted  sufficient  presence 
I of  mind  to  repress  the  impertinence  of  their 
young  partners,  who  sought  to  diredt  to  them- 
selves those  sighs  which  the  lips  of  our  agitated 
beauties  intended  for  heaven.  Some  of  the 
gentlemen  had  gone  down  stairs  to  smoke  a 
quiet  cigar,  and  the  rest  of  the  company 
gladly  embraced  a happy  suggestion  of  the 
hostess  to  retire  into  another  room,  which  was 
provided  with  shutters  and  curtains.  We  had 
hardly  got  there  when  Charlotte  placed  the 
chairs  in  a circle,  and  when  the  company  had 
sat  down  in  compliance  with  her  request,  she 
forthwith  proposed  a round  game. 


300 


I observed  some  of  the  company  prepare 
their  mouths  and  draw  themselves  up  at  the 
prospedt  of  some  agreeable  forfeit.  “ Let  us 
play  at  counting,”  said  Charlotte.  “Observe 
now,  I go  round  the  circle  from  right  to  left, 
and  each  person  is  to  count,  one  after  the 
other,  the  number  that  comes  to  him,  and 
must  count  fast;  whoever  stops  or  mistakes  is 
to  have  a box  on  the  ear,  and  so  on,  till  we 
have  counted  a thousand.”  It  was  delightful 
to  see  the  fun.  She  went  round  the  circle 
with  upraised  arm.  “One,”  said  the  first; 
“two,”  the  second;  “three,”  the  third,  and 
so  on,  till  Charlotte  went  faster  and  faster. 
One  made  a mistake,  instantly  a box  on  the 
ear ; and  amid  the  laughter  that  ensued  came 
another  box,  and  so  on,  faster  and  faster.  I 
myself  came  in  for  two.  I fancied  they  were 
harder  than  the  rest,  and  felt  quite  delighted. 
A general  laughter  and  confusion  put  an  end 
to  the  play  long  before  we  had  reached  a thou- 
sand. The  party  broke  up  into  little  separate 
knots,  the  storm  had  ceased,  and  I followed 
Charlotte  into  the  saloon.  On  the  way  she 
said  : “ The  game  banished  their  fears  of  the 
storm.”  I could  make  no  reply.  “I  my- 
self,” she  continued,  “was  as  much  frightened 
as  any  of  them ; but  by  affedling  courage,  to 
keep  up  the  spirits  of  the  others,  I forgot  my 
apprehensions.”  We  went  to  the  window. 
It  still  thundered  at  a distance ; a soft  rain 
was  pouring  down  over  the  country,  and  filled 
the  air  around  us  with  delicious  odors.  Char- 
lotte leaned  forward  upon  her  arm ; her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  scene ; she  raised  them  to 
heaven,  and  then  turned  them  upon  me ; 
they  were  moistened  with  tears ; she  placed 
her  hand  upon  mine,  and  said  : “ Klopstock  !” 
At  once  I remembered  the  magnificent  ode 
which  was  in  her  thoughts ; I felt  oppressed 
with  the  weight  of  my  sensations,  and  sank 
under  them.  It  was  more  than  I could  bear. 
I bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it  in  a stream 
of  delicious  tears.  As  I raised  myself  I looked 
steadfastly  in  her  face.  Divine  Klopstock  ! 
why  didst  thou  not  see  thy  apotheosis  in  those 
eyes?  And  thy  name,  so  often  profaned,  why 
should  I ever  desire  to  hear  it  again  repeated? 


June  igth. 

I no  longer  remember  where  I broke  off 
with  my  narrative  ; I only  know  it  was  two  in 
the  morning  when  I went  to  bed,  and  if  you 


had  been  with  me  that  I might  have  talked 
instead  of  writing  to  you,  in  all  probability  I 
should  have  kept  you  up  till  daylight. 

I believe  I have  not  related  what  happened 
on  our  way  home  from  the  ball,  and  I have 
not  time  to  tell  you  now.  It  was  a most  mag- 
nificent sunrise ; the  whole  country  was  re- 
freshed, and  the  rain  fell  drop  by  drop  from 
the  trees  in  the  forest.  Our  companions  were 
asleep.  Charlotte  asked  me  if  I did  not  wish 
to  sleep  too,  and  desired  I would  not  make 
any  ceremony  on  her  account.  I.ooking  stead- 
fastly at  her  I answered,  “As  long  as  those 
eyes  continue  open  there  is  no  fear  of  mine.” 
We  both  continued  awake  till  we  reached  the 
door.  The  maid  opened  it  softly,  and  as- 
sured her,  in  answer  to  her  inquiries,  that  her 
father  and  the  children  were  well,  and  still 
asleep.  I left  her,  asking  permission  to  visit 
her  in  the  course  of  the  day.  She  consented, 
and  I went;  and  since  that  time,  sun,  moon 
and  stars  may  pursue  their  course ; I know 
not  whether  it  is  day  or  night ; the  whole 
world  is  nothing  to  me. 


June  2isf. 

My  days  are  as  happy  as  those  reserved  by 
God  for  his  eledl,  and  whatever  be  my  fate 
hereafter,  I can  never  say  that  I have  not 
tasted  joy, — the  purest  joy  of  life.  You  know 
IV'alheim.  I am  now  completely  settled  there. 
In  that  spot  I am  only  half  a league  from 
Charlotte,  and  there  I enjoy  myself,  and  taste 
all  the  pleasure  which  can  fall  to  the  lot  of 
man. 

Little  did  I imagine  when  I seledled  Wal- 
heim  for  my  pedestrian  excursions  that  all 
heaven  lay  so  near  it.  How  often  in  my 
wanderings  from  the  hillside  or  from  the 
meadows  across  the  river  have  I beheld  this 
hunting-lodge,  which  now  contains  within  it 
all  the  joy  of  my  heart ! 

I have  often,  my  dear  Wilhelm,  reflehled 
on  the  eagerness  men  feel  to  wander  and  make 
new  discoveries,  and  upon  that  secret  impulse 
which  afterwards  inclines  them  to  return  back 
to  their  narrow  circle,  to  conform  to  the  laws 
of  custom,  and  to  embarrass  themselves  no 
longer  with  what  passes  around  them. 

It  is  so  strange  how,  when  I came  here  first 
and  gazed  upon  that  lovely  valley  from  the 
hillside,  I felt  charmed  with  the  entire  scene 
around  me.  The  little  wood  opposite, — how 


301 


delightful  to  sit  under  its  shade ! How  fine  i 
the  view  from  that  point  of  rock ! 'I'hen  that 
delightful  chain  of  hills  and  the  exquisite  val-  ' 
leys  at  their  feet  ! Could  I but  wander  and 
lose  myself  amongst  them  ! I went  and  re- 
turned without  finding  what  I wished.  Dis- 
tance, my  friend,  is  like  futurity.  A dim 
vastness  is  spread  before  our  sotils  ; the  per- 
ceptions of  our  mind  are  as  obscure  as  those 
of  our  vision,  and  we  desire  earnestly  to  sur- 
render up  our  whole  being  that  it  may  be 
filled  with  the  complete  and  perfedl  bliss  of 
one  glorious  emotion.  But,  alas  ! when  we 
have  attained  our  objedl,  when  the  distant 
there  becomes  the  present  here,  all  is  changed 
again  ; we  are  as  poor  and  circumscribed  as  | 
ever,  and  our  souls  still  languish  for  unattain- 
able happiness. 

So  the  restless  traveller  pants  for  his  native 
soil,  and  finds  in  his  own  cottage,  in  the  arms 
of  his  wife,  in  the  affedlions  of  his  children, 
and  in  the  labor  necessary  for  their  support, 
that  happiness  which  he  had  sought  in  vain 
through  the  wide  world. 

When  I go  out  at  sunrise  in  the  morning  to 
Walheim,  and  with  my  own  hands  gather  the 
peas  in  the  garden,  which  are  to  serve  for  my 
dinner,  when  I sit  down  to  shell  them  and 
read  my  Homer  during  the  intervals,  and 
then  selecting  a saucepan  from  the  kitchen, 
fetch  my  own  butter,  put  my  mess  on  the  fire, 
cover  it  up,  and  sit  down  to  stir  it  as  occasion 
requires,  I figure  to  myself  the  illustrious 
suitors  of  Penelope,  killing,  dressing  and  pre- 
paring their  own  oxen  and  swine.  Nothing 
fills  me  with  a more  ]iure  and  genuine  sense 
of  happiness  than  those  traits  of  patriarchal 
life  which,  thank  Heaven  ! I can  imitate  with- 
out affedtation.  Happy  is  it,  indeed,  for  me 
that  my  heart  is  capable  of  feeling  the  .same 
simple  and  innocent  pleasure  as  the  peasant, 
whose  table  is  covered  with  food  of  his  own 
rearing,  and  who  not  only  enjoys  his  meal,  but 
remembers  with  delight  the  happy  days  and 
sunny  mornings  when  he  planted  it,  the  soft 
evenings  when  he  watered  it,  and  the  pleasure 
he  experienced  in  watching  its  daily  growth. 


June  2gth. 

The  dav  before  yesterday  the  physician 
came  from  the  town  to  pay  a visit  to  the 
judge.  He  found  me  on  the  floor  playing 
with  Charlotte’s  children.  Some  of  them 


were  scrambling  over  me,  and  others  romped 
with  me,  and  as  I caught  and  tickled  them 
they  made  a great  noise.  'Hie  Dodlor  is  a 
formal  sort  of  personage ; he  adjusts  the  plaits 
of  his  ruffles,  and  continually  settles  his  frill 
whilst  he  speaks  with  you,  and  he  thought  my 
condudf  beneath  the  dignity  of  a sensible  man. 

I could  perceive  this  by  his  countenance.  But 
I did  not  suffer  myself  to  be  disturbed.  I al- 
lowed him  to  continue  his  wise  conversation 
whilst  I rebuilt  the  children’s  card-houses  for 
them  as  fast  as  they  threw  them  down.  He 
went  about  the  town,  afterwards,  complaining 
that  the  Judge’s  children  were  spoiled  enough 
before,  Init  that  now  Werther  was  completely 
ruining  them. 

Nothing  on  this  earth,  my  dear  Wilhelm, 
affedls  my  heart  so  much  as  children.  When 
I consider  them,  when  I mark  in  the  little 
creatures  the  seeds  of  all  those  virtues  and 
qualities  which  they  will  one  day  find  so  in- 
dispensable ; when  I behold  in  the  obstinate 
all  the  future  firmness  and  constancy  of  a 
noble  chara(5ler ; in  the  capricious,  that  levity 
and  gayety  of  temper  which  will  carry  them 
lightly  over  the  dangers  and  troubles  of  life, 
their  whole  nature  simple  and  unpolluted ; 
then  I call  to  mind  the  golden  words  of  the 
Great  Teacher  of  mankind,  “ If  you  become 
not  like  one  of  these !”  And  now,  my  friend, 
these  children,  who  are  our  equals,  whom  we 
ought  to  consider  as  our  models,  we  treat  them 
as  subjedls.  They  are  allowed  no  will  of  their 
own!  And  have  we  then  none  ourselves? 
W’hence  comes  our  exclusive  right  ? Is  it 
because  we  are  older  and  more  experienced  ? 
Great  God  ! from  the  height  of  thy  heaven, 
thou  beholdest  great  children  and  little  chil- 
dren, and  no  others;  and  thy  Son  has  long 
since  declared  which  afford  Thee  greatest 
pleasure.  But  they  believe  in  Him,  and 
hear  Him  not, — that  too  is  an  old  story ; 
and  they  train  their  children  after  their  own 
image,  etc. 

Adieu,  Wilhelm,  I will  not  further  bewilder 
myself  with  this  subjedl. 


July  1st. 

The  consolation  which  Charlotte  can  bring 
to  an  invalid  I experience  from  my  own  heart, 
which  suffers  more  from  her  absence  than 
many  a poor  creature  who  lingers  on  a bed  of 
sickness.  She  is  gone  to  spend  a few  days  in 


,02 


the  town  with  a very  worthy  woman,  who  is 
given  over  by  the  physicians,  and  wishes  to 
have  Charlotte  near  her  in  her  last  moments. 
I accompanied  her  last  week  on  a visit  to  the 
vicar  of  S , a small  village  in  the  moun- 

tains, about  a league  from  hence.  We  arrived 
about  four  o’clock ; Charlotte  had  taken  her 
little  sister  with  her.  When  we  entered  the 
vicarage  court  we  found  the  good  old  man 
sitting  upon  a bench  before  the  door,  under 
the  shade  of  two  large  walnut  trees.  At  the 
sight  of  Charlotte  he  seemed  to  gain  new  life, 
rose  up,  forgot  his  stick,  and  ventured  to  walk 
towards  her.  She  ran  to  him  and  made  him 
sit  down  again  ; then  placing  herself  by  his 
side  she  gave  him  a number  of  messages  from 
her  father,  and  then  caught  up  his  youngest 
child,  a dirty,  ugly  little  thing,  the  joy  of  his 
old  age,  and  kissed  it.  I wish  you  could  have 
witnessed  her  attention  to  this  old  man — how 
she  raised  her  voice  on  account  of  his  deaf- 
ness— how  she  told  him  of  healthy  young 
people  who  had  been  carried  off  when  it  was 
least  expedted  ; praised  the  virtues  of  Carlsbad, 
and  commended  his  determination  to  spend 
the  ensuing  summer  there  ; and  assured  him 
that  he  looked  better  and  stronger  than  he 
did  when  she  saw  him  last.  I,  in  the  mean- 
time, paid  attention  to  his  good  lady.  The 
old  man  seemed  quite  in  spirits;  and,  as  I 
could  not  help  admiring  the  beauty  of  the 
walnut  trees  which  formed  such  an  agreeable 
shade  over  our  heads,  he  began,  though  with 
.some  little  difficulty,  to  tell  us  their  history. 
“As  to  the  oldest,”  said  he,  “we  do  not 
know  who  planted  it — some  say  one  clergy- 
man, and  some  another;  but  the  younger  one, 
there  behind  us,  is  exadtly  the  age  of  my  wife, 
fifty  years  old  next  Odlober ; her  father 
planted  it  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening 
she  came  into  the  world.  My  wife’s  father 
was  my  predecessor  here,  and  I cannot  tell 
you  how  fond  he  was  of  that  tree,  and  it  is 
fully  as  dear  to  me.  Under  the  shade  of  that 
very  tree,  upon  a log  of  wood,  my  wife  was 
seated  knitting,  when  I,  a poor  student,  came 
into  this  court  for  the  first  time,  just  seven- 
and-twenty  years  ago.”  Charlotte  inquired 
for  his  daughter.  He  said  she  was  gone  with 
Herr  Schmidt  to  the  meadows,  and  was  with 
the  haymakers.  The  old  man  then  resumed 
his  story,  and  told  us  how  his  predecessor  had 
taken  a fancy  to  him,  as  had  his  daughter 
likewise ; and  how  he  had  become  first  his 
curate,  and  subsequently  his  successor.  He 
had  scarcely  finished  his  story  when  his 


daughter  returned  through  the  garden,  accom- 
panied by  the  above-mentioned  Herr  Schmidt. 
She  welcomed  Charlotte  affedtionately,  and  I 
confess  I was  much  taken  with  her  appearance. 
She  was  a lively-looking,  good-humored  bru- 
nette, quite  competent  to  amuse  one  for  a 
short  time  in  the  country.  Her  lover  (for 
such  Herr  Schmidt  evidently  ajipeared  to  be) 
was  a polite,  reserved  personage,  and  would 
not  join  our  conversation,  notwithstanding 
all  Charlotte’s  endeavors  to  draw  him  out. 
I was  much  annoyed  at  observing,  by  his 
countenance,  that  his  silence  did  not  arise 
from  want  of  talent,  but  from  caprice  and  ill- 
humor.  This  subsequently  became  very  evi- 
dent when  we  set  out  to  take  a walk,  and 
Frederica  joining  Charlotte,  with  whom  I was 
talking,  the  worthy  gentleman’s  face,  which 
was  naturally  rather  sombre,  became  so  dark 
and  angry,  that  Charlotte  was  obliged  to  touch 
my  arm  and  remind  me  that  I was  talking  too 
much  to  Frederica.  Nothing  distresses  me 
more  than  to  see  men  torment  each  other; 
particularly  when  in  the  flower  of  their  age, 
in  the  very  season  of  pleasure,  they  waste 
their  few  short  days  of  sunshine  in  quarrels 
and  disputes,  and  only  perceive  their  error 
when  it  is  too  late  to  repair  it.  This  thought 
dwelt  upon  my  mind  ; and  in  the  evening, 
when  we  returned  to  the  vicar’s,  and  were 
sitting  around  the  table,  with  our  bread  and 
milk,  the  conversation  turned  on  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  world,  I could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  inveigh  bitterly  against  ill- 
humor.  “We  are  apt,”  said  I,  “to  com- 
plain, but  with  very  little  cause,  that  our 
happy  days  are  few  and  our  evil  days  many. 
If  our  hearts  were  always  disposed  to  receive 
the  benefits  which  Heaven  sends  us  we  should 
acquire  strength  to  support  evil  when  it 
comes.”  “But,”  observed  the  vicar’s  wife, 
“we  cannot  always  command  our  tempers, 
so  much  de]jends  upon  the  constitution  : w'hen 
the  body  suffers  the  mind  is  ill  at  ease.”  “I 
acknowledge  that,”  I continued;  “but  we 
must  consider  such  a disposition  in  the  light 
of  a disease,  and  inquire  whether  there  is  no 
remedy  for  it.”  “I  should  be  glad  to  hear 
one,”  said  Charlotte;  “at  least  I think  very 
much  depends  upon  ourselves:  I know  it  is  so 
with  me.  When  anything  annoys  me,  and 
disturbs  my  temper,  I hasten  into  the  garden, 
hum  a couple  of  country-dances,  and  it  is  all 
right  with  me  diredtly.”  “That  is  what  I 
meant,”  I replied;  “ ill-humor  resembles  in- 
dolence ; it  is  natural  to  us : but  if  once  we 


303 


liave  courage  to  exert  ourselves  we  find  our 
work  run  fresh  from  our  liands,  and  we  ex- 
perience in  the  adtivity  from  which  we  shrank 
a real  enjoyment.”  Frederica  listened  very 
attentively,  and  the  young  man  objedted  that 
we  were  not  masters  of  ourselves,  and  still  less 
so  of  our  feelings.  '‘The  question  is  about 
a disagreeable  feeling,”  I added,  “ from  which 
every  one  would  willingly  escape,  but  none 
know  their  own  power  without  trial.  Invalids 
are  glad  to  consult  physicians,  and  submit  to 
the  most  scrupulous  regimen,  the  most  nau- 
seous medicines  to  recover  their  health.”  I 
observed  that  the  good  old  man  inclined  his 
head,  and  exerted  himself  to  hear  our  dis- 
course ; so  I raised  my  voice,  and  addressed  my- 
self diredtly  to  him.  “We  preach  against  a 
great  many  crimes,”  I observed,  “but  I never 
remember  a sermon  delivered  against  ill-hu- 


mor.” “That  may  do  very  well  for  your  town 
clergymen,”  said  he;  “country  people  are 
never  ill-humored  ; though,  indeed,  it  might  be 
useful  occasionally  to  my  wife,  for  instance,  and 
the  Judge.”  We  all  laughed,  as  did  he  likewise 
very  cordially,  till  he  fell  into  a fit  of  cough- 
ing, which  interrupted  our  conversation  for  a 
time.  Herr  Schmidt  resumed  the  subjedl. 
“You  call  ill-humor  a crime,”  he  remarked, 
“but  I think  you  use  too  strong  a term.” 
“Not  at  all,”  I replied,  “if  that  deserves  the 
name  which  is  so  pernicious  to  ourselves  and 
our  neighbors.  Is  it  not  enough  that  we  want 
1 the  power  to  make  one  another  happy, — must 
■ we  deprive  each  other  of  the  pleasure  which  we 
can  all  make  for  ourselves?  Show  me  the  man 
who  has  the  courage  to  hide  his  ill-humor, 

I who  bears  the  whole  burden  himself,  without 
I disturbing  the  peace  of  those  around  him. 


304 


No  ; ill-humor  arises  from  an  inward  con- 
sciousness of  our  own  want  of  merit — from  a 
discontent  which  ever  accompanies  that  envy 
which  foolish  vanity  engenders.  We  see 
people  happy  whom  we  have  not  made  so, 
and  cannot  endure  the  sight.”  Charlotte 
looked  at  me  with  a smile ; she  observed  the 
emotion  with  which  I spoke ; and  a tear  in 
the  eyes  of  Frederica  stimulated  me  to  pro- 
ceed. “Woe  unto  those,”  I said,  “who  use 
their  power  over  a human  heart  to  destroy  the 
simple  pleasures  it  would  naturally  enjoy  ! 
All  the  favors,  all  the  attentions  in  the  world 
cannot  compensate  for  the  loss  of  that  hap- 
piness which  a cruel  tyranny  has  destroyed.” 
My  heart  was  full  as  I spoke.  A recolledlion 
of  many  things  which  had  happened  pressed 
upon  my  mind,  and  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 
“We  should  daily  repeat  to  ourselves,”  I ex- 
claimed, “that  we  should  not  interfere  with 
our  friends,  unless  to  leave  them  in  possession 
of  their  own  joys,  and  increase  their  happiness 
by  sharing  it  with  them.  But  when  their  souls 
are  tormented  by  a violent  passion,  or  their 
hearts  rent  with  grief,  is  it  in  your  power  to 
afford  them  the  slightest  consolation  ? 

“ And  when  the  last  fatal  malady  seizes  the 
being  whose  untimely  grave  you  have  pre- 
pared, when  languid  and  exhausted  she  lies 
before  you,  her  dim  eyes  raised  to  heaven, 
and  the  damp  of  death  upon  her  pallid  brow, 
then  you  stand  at  her  bedside  like  a con- 
demned criminal,  with  the  bitter  feeling  that 
your  whole  fortune  could  not  save  her ; and 
the  agonizing  thought  wrings  you  that  all 
your  efforts  are  powerless  to  impart  even  a 
moment’s  strength  to  the  departing  soul,  or 
quicken  her  with  a transitory  consolation.” 

At  these  words  the  remembrance  of  a sim- 
ilar scene  at  which  I had  been  once  present 
fell  with  full  force  upon  my  heart.  I buried 
my  face  in  my  handkerchief  and  hastened 
from  the  room,  and  was  only  recalled  to  my 
recolledlion  by  Charlotte’s  voice,  who  re- 
minded me  that  it  was  time  to  return  home. 
With  what  tenderness  she  chid  me  on  the  way 
for  the  too  eager  interest  I took  in  everything ! 
She  declared  it  would  do  me  injury,  and  that 
I ought  to  spare  myself. — Yes,  my  angel  ! I 
will  do  so  for  your  sake. 


July  6th. 

She  is  still  with  her  dying  friend,  and  is  still 
the  same  bright,  beautiful  creature,  whose  pres- 


I ence  softens  pain  and  sheds  happiness  around 
whichever  way  she  turns.  She  went  out 
yesterday  with  her  little  sisters;  I knew  it, 
and  went  to  meet  them,  and  we  walked  to- 
gether. In  about  an  hour  and  a half  we  re- 
turned to  the  town.  We  stopped  at  the  spring 
I am  so  fond  of,  and  which  is  now  a thousand 
times  dearer  to  me  than  ever.  Charlotte 
seated  herself  upon  the  low  wall,  and  we 
gathered  about  her.  I looked  around  and 
* recalled  the  time  when  my  heart  was  unoc- 
cupied and  free. — “Dear  fountain!”  I said, 
“since  that  time  I have  no  more  come  to 
enjoy  cool  repose  by  thy  fresh  stream  ; I have 
I passed  thee  with  careless  steps,  and  scarcely 
1 bestowed  a glance  upon  thee.”  I looked 
I down  and  observed  Charlotte’s  little  sister, 

I Jane,  coming  up  the  steps  with  a glass  of  water. 
I turned  towards  Charlotte,  and  I felt  her  in- 
fluence over  me.  Jane  at  the  moment  ap- 
! proached  with  the  glass.  Her  sister,  Mari- 
! anne,  wished  to  take  it  from  her.  “No!” 
cried  the  child,  with  the  sweetest  expression 
of  face,  “Charlotte  must  drink  first.” 

The  affedtion  and  simplicity  with  which 
this  was  uttered  so  charmed  me,  that  I sought 
to  express  my  feelings  by  catching  up  the 
j child  and  kissing  her  heartily.  She  was 
1 frightened  and  began  to  cry. — “You  should 
I not  do  that,”  said  Charlotte.  I felt  per- 
I plexed. — “ Come,  Jane,”  shecontinued,  taking 
her  hand  and  leading  her  down  the  steps 
I again,  “it  is  no  matter;  wash  yourself  quickly 
in  the  fresh  water.”  I stood  and  watched 
them,  and  when  I saw  the  little  dear  rubbing 
her  cheeks  with  her  wet  hands,  in  full  belief 
that  all  the  impurities  contradled  from  my 
ugly  beard  would  be  washed  off  by  the  mirac- 
ulous water,  and  how,  though  Charlotte  said 
I it  would  do,  she  continued  still  to  wash  with 
I all  her  might,  as  though  she  thought  too  much 
i were  better  than  too  little,  I assure  you,  Wil- 
helm, I never  attended  a baptism  with  greater 
j reverence ; and  when  Charlotte  came  up  from 
1 the  well  I could  have  prostrated  myself  as 
I before  the  prophet  of  an  eastern  nation. 

In  the  evening  I could  not  resist  telling  the 
I story  to  a person  who  I thought  possessed 
I some  natural  feeling,  because  he  was  a man 
of  understanding.  But  what  a mistake  I 
made  ! He  maintained  it  was  very  wrong  of 
Charlotte — that  we  should  not  deceive  chil- 
j dren — that  such  things  occasioned  countless 
j mistakes  and  superstitions,  from  which  we 
I were  bound  to  protedl  the  young.  It  occurred 
I to  me  then  that  this  very  man  had  been  bap- 


305 


tized  only  a week  before,  so  I said  nothing 
further,  but  maintained  the  justice  of  my  own 
convidlions.  We  should  deal  with  children 
as  God  deals  with  us, — we  are  happiest  under 
the  influence  of  innocent  delusion. 


July  8th. 

What  a child  is  man  ! that  he  should  be  so 
solicitous  about  a look  ! What  a child  is  man  ! 
^\'e  had  been  to  ^V''alheim  : the  ladies  went  in 
a carriage,  but  during  our  walk  I thought  I 
saw  in  Charlotte’s  dark  eyes — I am  a fool — 
but  forgive  me  ! you  should  see  them — those 
eyes  ! However,  to  be  brief  (for  my  own  eyes 
are  weighed  down  with  sleep),  you  must  know, 
when  the  ladies  stepped  into  their  carriage 
again,  young  W.  Seldstadt,  Andran,  and  I 
were  standing  about  the  door.  They  are  a 
merry  set  of  fellows,  and  they  were  all  laugh- 
ing and  joking  together.  I watched  Char- 
lotte’s eyes  ; they  wandered  from  one  to  the 
other,  but  they  did  not  light  on  me — on  me, 
who  stood  there  motionless,  and  who  saw  noth- 
ing but  her  ! My  heart  bade  her  a thousand 
times  adieu,  but  she  noticed  me  not.  The 


carriage  drove  off,  and  my  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  I looked  after  her ; suddenly  I saw 
Charlotte’s  bonnet  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
and  she  turned  to  look  back — was  it  at  me  ? 
My  dear  friend,  I know  not,  and  in  this  un- 
certainty I find  consolation.  Perhaps  she 
turned  to  look  at  me.  Perhaps ! Good- 
night ! What  a child  I am  ! 


July  loth. 

You  should  see  how  foolish  I look  in  com- 
pany when  her  name  is  mentioned,  particularly 
when  I am  asked  plainly  how  I like  her? 
How  I like  her  ! — I detest  the  phrase.  What 
sort  of  creature  must  he  be  who  merely  liked 
Charlotte,  whose  whole  heart  and  senses  were 
not  entirely  absorbed  by  her.  Like  her ! 
Some  one  asked  me  lately  how  I liked  Ossian. 


July  nth. 

Madame  M.  is  very  ill.  I pray  for  her  re- 
covery because  Charlotte  shares  my  sufferings. 


306 


Sorrows  of  Young  Wertker. 

sea 


I see  her  occasionally  at  my  friend’s  house, 
and  to-day  she  has  told  me  the  strangest  cir- 
cumstance. Old  M.  is  a covetous,  miserly 
fellow,  who  has  long  worried  and  annoyed 
the  poor  lady  sadly ; but  she  has  borne  her 
afflidtions  patiently.  A few  days  ago,  when 
the  physician  informed  us  that  her  recovery 
was  hopeless,  she  sent  for  her  husband  (Char- 
lotte was  present),  and  addressed  him  thus: 
“I  have  something  to  confess,  which  after 
my  decease  may  occasion  trouble  and  con- 
fusion. I have  hitherto  condudled  your  house- 
hold as  frugally  and  economically  as  possible, 
but  you  must  pardon  me  for  having  defrauded 
you  for  thirty  years.  At  the  commencement 
of  our  married  life  you  allowed  a small  sum 
for  the  wants  of  the  kitchen  and  the  other 
household  expenses.  When  our  establishment 
increased  and  our  property  grew  larger  I 
could  not  persuade  you  to  increase  the  weekly 
allowance  in  proportion  ; in  short,  you  know 
that  when  our  wants  were  greatest  you  re- 
quired me  to  supply  everything  with  seven 
florins  a week.  I took  the  money  from  you 
without  an  observation,  but  made  up  the 
weekly  deflciency  from  the  money-chest,  as 
nobody  would  suspedl  your  wife  of  robbing 
the  household  bank.  But  I have  wasted  noth- 
ing, and  should  have  been  content  to  meet 
my  eternal  Judge  without  this  confession,  if 
she,  upon  whom  the  management  of  your 
establishment  will  devolve  after  my  decease, 
would  be  free  from  embarrassment  upon  your 
insisting  that  the  allowance  made  to  me,  your 
former  wife,  was  sufficient.” 

I talked  to  Charlotte  of  the  inconceivable 
manner  in  which  men  allow  themselves  to  be 
blinded  ; how  any  one  could  avoid  suspedling 
some  deception  when  seven  florins  only  were 
allowed  to  defray  expenses  twice  as  great. 
But  I have  myself  known  peoj)le  who  believed, 
without  any  visible  astonishment,  that  their 
house  possessed  the  prophet’s  never-failing 
cruse  of  oil. 


July  13th. 

No,  I am  not  deceived.  In  her  dark  eyes 
I read  a genuine  interest  in  me  and  in  my 
fortunes.  Yes,  I feel  it,  and  I may  believe 
my  own  heart  which  tells  me — dare  I say  it  ? 
— dare  I pronounce  the  divine  words? — that 
she  loves  me  ! 

That  she  loves  me  ! How  the  idea  exalts 
me  in  my  own  eyes  ! and  as  you  can  under- 


stand my  feelings,  I may  say  to  you  how  I 
honor  myself  since  she  loves  me  ! 

Is  this  presumption,  or  is  it  a consciousness 
of  the  truth  ? I do  not  know  a man  able  to 
supplant  me  in  the  heart  of  Charlotte;  and 
yet  when  she  speaks  of  her  betrothed  with  so 
much  warmth  and  affedtion  I feel  like  the 
soldier  who  has  been  stripped  of  his  honors 
and  titles,  and  deprived  of  his  sword. 


July  1 6th. 

How  my  heart  beats  when  by  accident  I 
touch  her  finger,  or  my  feet  meet  hers  under 
the  table  ! I draw  back  as  if  from  a furnace, 
but  a secret  force  impels  me  forward  again, 
and  my  senses  become  disordered.  Her  inno- 
cent, unconscious  heart  never  know's  what 
agony  these  little  familiarities  inflidt  upon  me ! 
Sometimes  when  we  are  talking  she  lays  her 
hand  upon  mine,  and  in  the  eagerness  of  con- 
versation comes  closer  to  me,  and  her  balmy 
breath  reaches  my  lips, — when  I feel  as  if 
lightning  had  struck  me,  and  that  I could 
sink  into  the  earth.  And  yet,  Wilhelm  ! with 
all  this  heavenly  confidence, — if  I know  my- 
self and  should  ever  dare  — you  understand 
me.  No,  no,  my  heart  is  not  so  corrupt, — it  is 
weak,  weak  enough — but  is  not  that  a degree 
of  corruption  ? 

She  is  to  me  a sacred  being.  All  passion 
is  still  in  her  presence ; I cannot  express  my 
sensations  when  I am  near  her.  I feel  as  if 
my  soul  beat  in  every  nerve  of  my  body. 
There  is  a melody  which  she  plays  on  the 
piano  with  angelic  skill — so  simple  is  it  and 
yet  so  spiritual ! It  is  her  favorite  air ; and 
when  she  plays  the  first  note,  all  pain,  care 
and  sorrow  disappear  from  me  in  a moment. 

I believe  every  word  that  is  said  of  the 
magic  of  ancient  music.  How  her  simple  song 
enchants  me!  Sometimes,  when  I am  ready 
to  commit  suicide,  she  sings  that  air,  and  in- 
stantly the  gloom  and  madness  which  hung 
over  me  are  dispersed,  and  I breathe  freely 
again. 


July  1 8th. 

Wilhelm  ! what  is  the  world  to  our  hearts 
without  love?  What  is  a magic-lantern  with- 
out light?  You  have  but  to  kindle  the  flame 
within  and  the  brightest  figures  shine  on  the 


307 


white  wall ; and  if  love  only  show  us  fleeting 
shadows  we  are  yet  happy  when,  like  mere 
children,  we  behold  them,  and  are  transported 
with  the  splendid  phantoms.  I have  not  been 
able  to  see  Charlotte  to-day.  I was  prevented 
by  company  from  which  I could  not  disengage 
myself.  What  was  to  be  done  ? I sent  my 
servant  to  her  house,  that  I might,  at  least, 
see  somebody  to-day  who  had  been  near  her. 
Oh ! the  imjiatience  with  which  I waited  for 
his  return — the  joy  with  which  I welcomed 
him  ! I should  certainly  have  caught  him  in 
my  arms  and  kissed  him,  if  I had  not  been 
ashamed. 

It  is  said  that  the  Bonona  stone,  when 
placed  in  the  sun,  attradls  the  rays,  and  for 
a time  appears  luminous  in  the  dark.  So  was 
It  with  me  and  this  servant.  The  idea  that 
Charlotte’s  eyes  had  dwelt  on  his  countenance, 
his  cheek,  his  very  apparel,  endeared  them  all 
inestimably  to  me,  so  that  at  the  moment  I 
would  not  have  parted  from  him  for  a thousand 
crowns.  His  presence  made  me  so  happy  ! 
Beware  of  laughing  at  me,  Wilhelm.  Can 
that  be  a delusion  which  makes  us  happy  ? 


July  igth. 

“I  shall  see  her  to-day!”  I exclaim  with 
delight,  when  I rise  in  the  morning,  and  look 
out  with  gladness  of  heart  at  the  bright,  beau- 
tiful sun. — “I  shall  see  her  to-day!”  and  then 
I have  no  further  wish  to  form  ; all — all  is  in- 
cluded in  that  one  thought. 


July  20th. 

I cannot  assent  to  your  proposal  that  I 

should  accompany  the  Ambassador  to  . 

I do  not  love  subordination,  and  we  all  know 
that  he  is  a rough,  disagreeable  person  to  be 
conne(5led  with.  You  say  my  mother  wishes 
me  to  be  employed.  I could  not  help  laugh- 
ing at  that.  Am  I not  sufficiently  employed? 
And  is  it  not  in  reality  the  same,  whether  I 
shell  peas  or  count  lentils  ? The  world  runs 
on  from  one  folly  to  another,  and  the  man 
who,  solely  from  regard  to  the  opinion  of 
others,  and  without  any  wish  or  necessity  of 
his  own,  toils  after  gold,  honor,  or  any  other 
phantom,  is  no  better  than  a fool. 


July  24th. 

You  insist  so  much  on  my  not  negledling 
my  drawing,  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  me 
to  say  nothing  as  to  confess  how  little  I have 
lately  done. 

I never  felt  happier ; I never  understood 
nature  better,  even  down  to  the  veriest  stem, 
or  smallest  blade  of  grass ; and  yet  I am  un- 
able to  express  myself ; my  powers  of  execu- 
tion are  so  weak,  everything  seems  to  swim 
and  float  before  me,  so  that  1 cannot  make  a 
clear,  bold  outline ; but  I fancy  I should  suc- 
ceed better  if  I had  some  clay  or  wax  to  model. 
I shall  try,  if  this  state  of  mind  continues  much 
longer,  and  will  take  to  modelling,  if  I only 
knead  dough. 

I have  commenced  Charlotte’s  portrait  three 
times,  and  have  as  often  disgraced  myself. 
This  is  the  more  annoying  as  I was  formerly 
very  happy  in  taking  likenesses.  I have  since 
sketched  her  profile,  and  must  content  myself 
with  that. 


July  2yth. 

Yes,  dear  Charlotte  ! I will  order  and  ar- 
range everything.  Only  give  me  more  com- 
missions,— the  more  the  better.  One  thing, 
however,  I must  request.  Use  no  more  writ- 
ing-sand with  the  dear  notes  you  send  me. 
To-day  I raised  your  letter  hastily  to  my  lips, 
and  it  set  my  teeth  on  edge. 


J^ily  26th. 

I have  often  determined  not  to  see  her  so 
frequently.  But  who  could  keep  such  a reso- 
lution ? Every  day  I am  exposed  to  the 
temptation,  and  promise  faithfully  that  to- 
morrow I will  really  stay  away  ; but  when  to- 
morrow comes,  I find  some  irresistible  reason 
for  seeing  her ; and  before  I can  account  for 
it  I am  with  her  again.  Either  she  has  said 
on  the  previous  evening,  “You  will  be  sure  to 
call  to-morrow!” — and  who  could  stay  away 
then? — or  she  gives  me  some  commission,  and 
I find  it  essential  to  take  her  the  answer  in 
person  ; or  the  day  is  fine  and  I walk  to  Wal- 
heim,  and  when  I am  there  it  is  only  half  a 
league  further  to  her.  I am  within  the  charmed 
atmosphere,  and  soon  find  myself  at  her  side. 
My  grandmother  used  to  tell  us  a story  of  a 


308 


mountain  of  loadstone.  When  any  vessels 
came  near  it  they  were  deprived  instantly  of 
their  ironwork,  the  nails  flew  to  the  mountain, 
and  the  unhappy  crew  perished  amongst  the 
disjointed  planks. 


July  30th. 

Albert  is  arrived  and  I must  take  my  de- 
parture. Were  he  the  best  and  noblest  of 
men  and  I in  every  respedl  his  inferior,  I 
could  not  endure  to  see  him  in  possession  of 
such  a perfedt  being.  Possession  ! — -enough, 
Wilhelm;  her  betrothed  is  here!  A fine, 
worthy  fellow,  whom  one  cannot  help  liking. 
Fortunately  I was  not  present  at  their  meeting. 
It  would  have  broken  my  heart  ! And  he  is 
so  considerate  ; he  has  not  given  Charlotte 
one  kiss  in  my  presence.  Heaven  reward 
him  for  it ! I must  love  him  for  the  respedl 
with  which  he  treats  her.  He  shows  a regard 
for  me,  but  for  this  I suspedf  I am  more  in- 
debted to  Charlotte  than  to  his  own  fancy  for 
me.  Women  have  a delicate  tadl  in  such 
matters;  and  it  should  be  so.  They  cannot 
always  succeed  in  keeping  two  rivals  on  terms 
with  each  other ; but  when  tliey  do,  they  are 
the  only  gainers. 

I cannot  help  esteeming  Albert.  The  cool- 
ness of  his  temper  contrasts  strongly  with  the 
impetuosity  of  mine,  which  I cannot  conceal. 
He  has  a great  deal  of  feeling,  and  is  fully 


sensible  of  the  treasure  he  possesses  in  Char- 
lotte. He  is  free  from  ill -humor,  which  you 
know  is  the. fault  I detest  most. 

He  regards  me  as  a man  of  sense;  and  my 
attachment  to  Charlotte,  and  the  interest  I 
take  in  all  that  concerns  her,  augment  his 
triumph  and  his  love.  I shall  not  inquire 
whether  he  may  not  at  times  tease  her  with 
some  little  jealousies,  as  I know  that  were  I in 
his  place  I should  not  be  entirely  free  from 
such  sensations. 

But  be  that  as  it  may,  my  pleasure  with 
Charlotte  is  over.  Call  it  folly,  or  infatuation, 
what  signifies  a name?  The  thing  speaks  for 
itself.  Before  Albert  came,  I knew  all  that  I 
know  now.  I knew  I could  make  no  preten- 
sions to  her,  nor  did  I offer  any;  that  is,  as  far 
as  it  was  possible  in  the  presence  of  so  much 
loveliness,  not  to  pant  for  its  enjoyment.  And 
now,  behold  me,  like  a silly  fellow,  staring 
with  astonishment  when  another  comes  in  and 
deprives  me  of  my  love. 

I bite  my  lips  and  feel  infinite  scorn  for 
those  who  tell  me  to  be  resigned,  because 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  Let  me  escape  from 
the  yoke  of  such  silly  subterfuges  I I ramble 
through  the  woods,  and  when  I return  to 
Charlotte,  and  find  Albert  sitting  by  her  side 
in  the  summer-house  in  the  garden,  I am  un- 
able to  bear  it ; behave  like  a fool ; and 
commit  a thousand  extravagances.  “ For 
Heaven’s  sake,”  said  Charlotte  to-day,  “let 
us  have  no  more  scenes  like  those  of  last 


309 


I Sornm’s  of  Young  ]\’crtlier. 

_MI.  ■■  -M 


SDS 


night.  You  terrify  me  wlien  you  are  so 
violent.”  Between  ourselves,  1 am  always 
away  now  when  he  visits  her,  and  I feel  de- 
lighted when  I find  her  alone. 


August  8th. 

Believe  me,  dear  Wilhelm,  I did  not  allude 
to  you  when  I spoke  so  severely  of  those  who 
advise  resignation  to  inevitable  fate.  I did 
not  think  it  possible  for  you  to  indulge  such  a 
sentiment.  But  in  fadt  you  are  right.  1 
only  suggest  one  objedtion.  In  this  world 
one  is  seldom  reduced  to  make  a seledtion 
between  two  alternatives.  There  are  as  many 
varieties  of  condudt  and  opinion  as  there  are 
turns  of  feature  between  an  aquiline  nose  and 
a flat  one. 

You  will,  therefore,  permit  me  to  concede 
your  entire  argument,  and  yet  contrive  means 
to  escape  your  dilemma. 

Your  position  is  this:  “Either  you  have 
hopes  of  obtaining  Charlotte,  or  you  have 
none.  Well,  in  the  first  case,  pursue  your 
course,  and  jiress  on  to  the  fulfilment  of  your 
wishes.  In  the  second,  be  a man,  and  shake 
off  a miserable  passion  which  will  enervate 
and  destroy  you.”  My  dear  friend,  this  is 
well  and  easily  said. 

But  would  you  require  a wretched  being, 
whose  life  is  slowly  wasting  under  a lingering 
disease,  to  despatch  himself  at  once  by  the 
stroke  of  a dagger?  Does  not  the  very  dis- 
order which  consumes  his  strength  deprive 
him  of  the  courage  to  effedl  his  deliverance? 

You  may  answer  me,  if  you  please,  with  a 
similar  analogy.  “ Who  would  not  prefer 
the  amputation  of  an  arm  to  the  perilling  of 
life  by  doubt  and  procrastination?”  But  I 
know  not  if  I am  right,  and  let  us  leave  these 
comparisons. 

Enough  1 — There  are  moments,  Wilhelm, 
when  I could  rise  up  and  shake  it  all  off,  and 
when,  if  I only  knew  where  to  go,  I could  fly 
from  this  place. 


The  same  evening. 

My  diary,  which  I have  for  some  time  ne- 
gledled,  came  before  me  to-day,  and  I am 
amazed  to  see  how  deliberately  I liave  en- 
tangled myself  step  by  stej).  'Fo  have  seen 
my  position  so  clearly,  and  yet  to  have  adted 


so  like  a child ! Even  still  I behold  the  result 
plainly,  and  yet  have  no  thought  of  adfing 
with  greater  prudence. 


August  loth. 

If  I were  not  a fool  I could  spend  the  hap- 
piest and  most  delightful  life  here.  So  many 
agreeable  circumstances,  and  of  a kind  to 
ensure  a worthy  man’s  happiness,  are  seldom 
united.  Alas ! I feel  it  too  sensibh' — the 
heart  alone  makes  our  happiness.  To  be  ad- 
mitted into  this  most  charming  family,  to  be 
loved  by  the  father  as  a son,  by  the  children 
as  a father,  and  by  Charlotte  ! — then  the  noble 
Albert,  who  never  disturbs  my  happiness  by 
any  appearance  of  ill-humor,  receiving  me 
with  the  heartiest  affedtion,  and  loving  me 
next  to  Charlotte  better  than  all  the  world  ! 
Wilhelm,  you  would  be  delighted  to  hear  us 
in  our  rambles  and  conversations  about  Char- 
lotte ; nothing  in  the  world  can  be  more  ab- 
surd than  our  connedlion,  and  yet  the  thought 
of  it  often  moves  me  to  tears. 

He  tells  me  sometimes  of  her  excellent 
mother — how  upon  her  deathbed  she  had  com- 
mitted her  house  and  children  to  Charlotte, 
and  had  given  Charlotte  herself  in  charge  to 
him — how  since  that  time  a new  spirit  had 
taken  possession  of  her — how  in  care  and 
anxiety  for  their  welfare  she  became  a real 
mother  to  them — how  every  moment  of  her 
time  was  devoted  to  some  labor  of  love  in 
their  behalf — and  yet  her  mirth  and  cheerful- 
ness had  never  forsaken  her.  I walk  by  his 
side,  pluck  flowers  by  the  way,  arrange  them 
carefully  into  a nosegay,  then  fling  them  into 
the  first  stream  I pass,  and  watch  them  as  they 
float  gently  away.  I forget  whether  I told 
you  that  yVlbert  is  to  remain  here.  He  has 
received  a government  appointment  with  a 
very  good  salary,  and  I understand  he  is  in 
high  favor  at  court..  I have  met  few  persons 
so  pundtual  and  methodical  in  business. 


August  1 2 th. 

Certainly  Albert  is  the  best  fellow  in  tlie 
world.  I had  a strange  scene  with  him  yester- 
day. I went  to  take  leave  of  him,  for  I took 
it  into  my  head  to  spend  a few  days  in  these 
mountains,  from  whence  I now  write  to  you. 


310 


As  I was  walking  up  and  down  his  room  my 
eye  fell  uj)on  his  pistols.  “Lend  me  those 
pistols,”  said  I,  “for  my  journey.”  “By  all 
means,”  he  replied,  “if  you  will  take  the 
trouble  to  load  them,  for  they  only  hang  there 
for  form.”  I took  down  one  of  them,  and 
he  continued:  “Ever  since  I was  near  suffer- 
ing for  my  extreme  caution  I have  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  such  things.”  I was  curious 
to  hear  the  story.  “I  was  staying,”  said  he, 
“some  three  months  ago  at  a friend’s  house 
in  the  country.  I had  a brace  of  pistols  with  | 
me  unloaded,  and  I slept  without  any  anxiety. 
One  rainy  afternoon  I was  sitting  by  myself, 
doing  nothing,  when  it  occurred  to  me — I do 
not  know  how — that  the  house  might  be  at- 
tacked— that  we  might  require  the  pistols — 
that  we  might — in  short,  you  know  how  we 
go  on  fancying  when  we  have  nothing  better  ! 
to  do.  I gave  the  pistols  to  the  servant  to 
clean  and  load.  He  was  playing  with  the  i 
maid,  and  trying  to  frighten  her,  when  the  I 
pistol  went  off — God  knows  how  ! — the  ramrod 
was  in  the  barrel  and  it  went  straight  through  i 
her  right  hand,  and  shattered  the  thumb.  I 
had  to  endure  all  the  lamentation  and  the  sur-  j 
geon’s  bill  to  pay;  so  since  that  time  I have  ! 
kept  all  my  weapons  unloaded.  But,  my  dear  i 
friend,  what  is  the  use  of  prudence  ? We  can 
never  be  on  our  guard  against  all  possible 
dangers.  However — ” Now  you  must  know  ! 
I can  tolerate  all  men  till  they  come  to  “how- 
ever,” for  it  is  self-evident  that  every  univer- 
sal rule  must  have  its  exceptions.  But  he  is 
so  exceedingly  accurate  that  if  he  only  fancies 
he  has  said  a word  too  precipitate,  or  too  gen- 
eral, or  only  half  true,  he  never  ceases  to 
qualify,  to  modify  and  extenuate,  till  at  last 
he  appears  to  have  said  nothing  at  all.  Upon 
this  occasion  Albert  was  deeply  immersed  in 
his  subjeft ; I ceased  to  hear  him  and  became 
lost  in  reverie.  With  a sudden  motion  I 
])ointed  the  mouth  of  the  pistol  to  my  fore- 
head, over  the  right  eye.  “ What  do  you 
mean?”  cried  Albert,  turning  back  the  pistol. 
“It  is  not  loaded,”  said  I.  “And  even  if 
not,”  he  answered  with  impatience,  “ what  can 
you  mean?  I cannot  comprehend  how  a man 
can  be  so  mad  as  to  shoot  himself,  and  the 
bare  idea  of  it  shocks  me.” 

“But  why  should  any  one,”  said  I,  “in 
speaking  of  an  aftion,  venture  to  j)ronounce 
it  mad,  or  wise,  or  good,  or  bad  ? What  is 
the  meaning  of  all  this?  Have  you  carefully 
studied  the  secret  motives  of  our  adlions?  Do  ' 
you  understand — can  you  explain  the  causes  I 


which  occasion  them,  and  make  them  inev- 
itable ? If  you  can,  you  will  be  less  hasty 
with  your  decision.” 

“But  you  will  allow,”  said  Albert,  “ that 
some  adlions  are  criminal,  let  them  spring 
from  whatever  motives  they  may.”  I granted 
it  and  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

“But  still,  my  good  friend,”  I continued, 
“there  are  some  exceptions  here  too.  Theft 
is  a crime,  but  the  man  who  commits  it  from 
extreme  poverty,  with  no  design  but  to  save 
his  family  from  perishing,  is  he  an  objedl  of 
pity  or  of  punishment?  Who  shall  throw  the 
first  stone  at  a husband  who,  in  the  heat  of 
just  resentment,  sacrifices  his  faithless  wife 
and  her  perfidious  seducer?  or  at  the  young 
maiden  who,  in  her  weak  hour  of  rapture, 
forgets  herself  in  the  impetuous  joys  of  love  ? 
Even  our  laws,  cold  and  cruel  as  they  are, 
relent  in  such  cases  and  withhold  their  punish- 
ment.” 

“That  is  quite  another  thing,”  said  Albert; 
“because  a man  under  the  influence  of  violent 
passion  loses  all  power  of  refledtion,  and  is  re- 
garded as  intoxicated  or  insane.” 

“ Oh  ! you  peoi)le  of  sound  understandings,” 
I replied,  smiling,  “ are  ever  ready  to  exclaim, 
‘ Extravagance  and  madness,  and  intoxica- 
tion !’  You  moral  men  are  so  calm  and  so 
subdued  ! You  abhor  the  drunken  man,  and 
detest  the  extravagant  ; you  pass  by  like  the 
Levite,  and  thank  God,  like  the  Pharisee, 
that  you  are  not  like  one  of  them.  I have 
been  more  than  once  intoxicated,  my  passions 
have  always  bordered  on  extravagance  ; I am 
not  ashamed  to  confess  it,  for  I have  learned, 
by  my  own  experience,  that  all  extraordinary 
men,  who  have  accomplished  great  and  aston- 
ishing adlions,  have'ever  been  decried  by  the 
world  as  drunken  or  insane.  And  in  private 
life,  too,  is  it  not  intolerable  that  no  one  can 
undertake  the  execution  of  a noble  or  generous 
deed  without  giving  rise  to  the  exclamation 
that  the  doer  is  intoxicated  or  mad?  Shame 
upon  you,  ye  sages !” 

“This  is  another  of  your  extravagant  hu- 
mors,” said  Albert;  “you  always  exaggerate 
a case,  and  in  this  matter  you  are  undoubtedly 
wrong,  for  we  were  speaking  of  suicide,  which 
you  compare  with  great  adlions,  when  it  is 
impossible  to  regard  it  as  anything  but  a weak- 
ness. It  is  much  easier  to  die  than  to  bear 
a life  of  misery  with  fortitude.” 

I was  on  the  point  of  breaking  off  the  con- 
versation, for  nothing  puts  me  so  completely 
out  of  patience  as  the  utterance  of  a wretched 


3" 


commonplace,  when  I am  talking  from  my  in- 
most heart.  However,  I composed  myself, 
for  I had  often  heard  the  same  observation 
with  sufficient  vexation,  and  1 answered  him, 
therefore,  with  a little  warmth:  “You  call 
this  a weakness ! Beware  of  being  led  astray 
by  appearances.  When  a nation  which  has 
long  groaned  under  the  intolerable  yoke  of  a 
tyrant  rises  at  last  and  throws  off  its  chains — 
do  you  call  that  weakness?  The  man  who, 
to  rescue  his  house  from  the  flames,  finds  his 
physical  strength  redoubled,  so  that  he  lifts 
burdens  with  ease,  which  in  the  absence  of 
excitement  he  could  scarcely  move ; he  who 
under  the  rage  of  an  insult  attacks  and  puts 
to  flight  half  a score  of  his  enemies — are  such 
persons  to  be  called  weak?  My  good  friend, 
if  resistance  be  strength,  how  can  the  highest 
degree  of  resistance  be  a weakness?” 

Albert  looked  steadfastly  at  me,  and  said, 
“Pray,  forgive  me,  but  I do  not  see  that  the 
examples  you  have  adduced  bear  any  relation 
to  the  question.”  “ Very  likely,”  I answered, 
“for  I have  often  been  told  that  my  style  of 
illustration  borders  a little  on  the  absurd. 
But  let  us  see  if  we  ctinnot  place  the  matter 
in  another  point  of  view,  by  inquiring  what 
can  be  a man’s  state  of  mind  who  resolves  to 
free  himself  from  the  burden  of  life — a burden 


often  so  ])leasant  to  bear — for  we  cannot  other- 
wise reason  fairly  upon  the  subjedt. 

“Human  nature,”  I continued,  “has  its 
limits.  It  is  able  to  endure  a certain  degree 
of  joy,  sorrow  and  pain,  but  becomes  anni- 
hilated as  soon  as  this  measure  is  exceeded. 
The  question  therefore  is,  not  whether  a man 
is  strong  or  weak,  but  whether  he  is  able  to 
endure  the  measure  of  his  sufferings?  The 
suffering  may  be  moral  or  physical  ; and  in 
my  opinion  it  is  just  as  .absurd  to  call  a man 
a coward  who  destroys  himself  as  to  call  a man 
a coward  who  dies  of  a malignant  fever.” 

“ Paradox  ! all  paradox  !”  exclaimed  Albert. 

“Not  so  paradoxical  as  you  imagine,”  I 
replied.  “You  allow  that  we  designate  a 
disease  as  mortal  when  nature  is  so  severely 
attacked  and  her  strength  so  far  exhausted 
that  she  cannot  possibly  recover  her  former 
condition  under  any  change  that  may  take 
place. 

“ Now,  my  good  friend,  apply  this  to  the 
mind  ; observe  a man  in  his  natural  isolated 
condition,  consider  how  ideas  work  and  how 
impressions  fasten  uj'on  him,  till  at  length  a 
violent  passion  seizes  him,  destroying  all  his 
])owers  of  calm  refledlion  and  provoking  his 
utter  ruin. 

“ It  is  in  vain  that  a man  of  sound  mind 


312 


and  cool  temper  understands  the  condition  of 
such  a wretched  being,  in  vain  he  counsels 
him.  He  can  no  more  communicate  his  own 
wisdom  to  him  than  a healthy  man  can  instil 
his  strength  into  the  invalid  by  whose  bedside 
he  is  seated.” 

.\lbert  thought  this  too  general.  I re- 
minded him  of  a girl  who  had  drowned  her- 
self a short  time  previously,  and  I related  her 
history : 

“She  was  a good  creature,  who  had  grown 
up  in  the  narrow  sphere  of  household  industry 
and  weekly-appointed  labor,  one  who  knew 
no  pleasure  beyond  indulging  in  a walk  on 
Sundays,  arrayed  in  her  best  attire,  accompa- 
nied by  her  friends,  or  perhaps  joining  in  the 
dance  now  and  then  at  some  festival,  and 
chatting  away  her  spare  hours  with  a neighbor, 
discussing  the  scandal  or  the  quarrels  of  the 
village — trifles  sufficient  to  occupy  her  heart. 
.\t  length  the  warmth  of  her  nature  is  influ- 
enced by  certain  new  and  unknown  wishes. 
Inflamed  by  the  flatteries  of  men,  her  former 
pleasures  become  by  degrees  insipid,  till  at 
length  she  meets  with  a youth  to  whom  she  is 
attradled  by  an  indescribable  feeling.  Upon 
him  she  now  rests  all  her  hopes ; she  forgets 
the  world  around  her ; she  sees,  hears,  desires 
nothing  but  him,  and  him  only.  He  alone 
occupies  all  her  thoughts.  Uncorrupted  by 
the  idle  indulgence  of  an  enervating  vanity, 
her  affedfion  moving  steadily  towards  its  ob- 
jedl,  she  hopes  to  become  his,  and  to  realize 
in  an  everlasting  union  with  him  all  that  hap- 
piness which  she  sought,  all  that  bliss  for 
which  she  longed.  His  repeated  promises 
confirm  her  hopes;  embraces  and  endear- 
ments, which  increase  the  ardor  of  her  de- 
sires, overmaster  her  soul.  She  floats  in  a 
dim  delusive  anticipation  of  her  happiness, 
and  her  feelings  become  excited  to  their  ut- 
most tension.  She  stretches  out  her  arms 
finally  to  embrace  the  objedl  of  all  her  wishes — • 
and  her  lover  forsakes  her.  Stunned  and  be- 
wildered, she  stands  upon  a precipice.  All  is 
dirkness  around  her.  No  prospedl,  no  hope, 
no  consolation — forsaken  by  him  in  whom  her 
e.xistence  was  centred  ! She  sees  nothing  of 
the  wide  world  before  her,  thinks  nothing  of 
the  many  individuals  who  might  supply  the 
void  in  her  heart ; .she  feels  herself  deserted, 
forsaken  by  the  world;  and  lilinded  and  im- 
pelled by  the  agony  which  wrings  her  soul, 
she  plunges  into  the  deep,  to  end  her  suffer- 
ings in  the  broad  embrace  of  death.  See 
here,  Albert,  the  history  of  thousands,  and 


tell  me,  is  not  this  a case  of  physical  infirm- 
ity? Nature  has  no  way  to  escape  from  the 
labyrinth;  her  powers  are  exhausted ; she  can 
contend  no  longer,  and  the  poor  soul  must 
die. 

“ Shame  upon  him  who  can  look  on  calmly 
and  exclaim : ‘ The  foolish  girl  ! she  should 
have  waited ; she  should  have  allowed  time  to 
wear  off  the  impression ; her  despair  would 
! have  been  softened,  and  she  would  have  found 
i another  lover  to  comfort  lier.’  One  might 
! as  well  say,  ‘ The  fool,  to  die  of  a fever ! 

Why  did  he  not  wait  till  his  strength  was  re- 
i stored,  till  his  blood  became  calm?  All  would 
then  have  gone  well,  and  he  would  have  been 
alive  now.’  ” 

Albert,  who  could  not  see  the  justice  of  the 
comparison,  offered  some  further  objebfions, 
and  amongst  others  urged  that  I had  taken  the 
case  of  a mere  ignorant  girl.  But  how  any 
man  of  sense,  of  more  enlarged  views  and  e.x- 
perience,  could  be  e.xcused,  he  was  unable  to 
comprehend.  “My  friend,”  I exclaimed, 

1 “man  is  but  man,  and  whatever  be  the  extent 
of  his  reasoning  powers,  they  are  of  little 
avail  when  ])assion  rages  within  and  he  feels 
himself  confined  by  the  narrow  limits  of  na- 
ture. It  were  better  then — ■ But  we  will  talk 
of  this  some  other  time,”  I said,  and  caught 
up  my  hat.  Alas  1 my  heart  was  full,  and  we 
parted  without  convidlion  on  either  side. 
How  rarely  in  this  world  do  men  understand 
each  other ! 


Aitgi/sf  i§th. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  this  world 
nothing  is  so  indispensable  as  love.  I observe 
that  Charlotte  could  not  lose  me  without  a 
l)ang,  and  the  very  children  have  but  one 
wish;  that  is,  that  I should  visit  them  again 
to-morrow.  I went  this  afternoon  to  tune 
Charlotte’s  piano;  but  I could  not  do  it,  for 
the  little  ones  insisted  on  my  telling  them  a 
story,  and  Charlotte  herself  urged  me  to  satisfy 
them.  I waited  upon  them  at  tea,  and  they 
are  now  as  fully  contented  with  me  as  with 
Charlotte,  and  I told  them  my  very  best  tale 
of  the  princess  who  was  waited  upon  by 
dwarfs.  I improve  myself  by  this  exercise, 
and  am  quite  surprised  at  the  impression  my 
stories  create.  If  I sometimes  invent  an  inci- 
dent which  I forget  upon  the  next  narration, 

I they  remind  me  diredlly  that  the  story  was  dif- 
ferent before,  so  that  I now  endeavor  to  relate 


3C3 


Sorrows  of  Young 


Wert  her. 


with  exaftness  the  same  anecdote  in  the  same 
monotonous  tone,  which  never  changes.  1 
find  by  this  how  mucli  an  author  injures,  his 
works  by  altering,  them,  even  tliough  they  be 
improved  in  a poetical  point  of  view.  The 
first  impression  is  readily  received.  We  are 
so  constituted  that  we  believe  the  most  in- 
credible things;  and  once  they  are  engraved 
upon  the  memory,  woe  to  him  who  would 
endeavor  to  efface  them  1 


August  1 8th. 

Must  it  ever  be  tints — that  the  source  of  our 
happiness  must  also  be  the  fountain  of  our 
misery?  The  full  and  ardent  sentiment  which 
animated  my  heart  with  the  love  of  nature, 
overwhelming  me  with  a torrent  of  delight, 
and  which  brought  all  paradise  before  me,  has 
now  become  an  insupportable  torment  — a 
demon  which  perpetually  pursues  and  harasses 
me.  When  in  bygone  days  I gazed  from  these 
rocks  upon  yonder  mountains  across  the  river, 
and  upon  the  green  flowery  valley  before  me, 
and  saw  all  nature  budding  and  bursting 
around — the  hills  clothed  from  foot  to  peak 
with  tall,  thick  forest  trees — the  valleys  in  all 
their  varied  windings,  shaded  with  the  love- 
liest woods,  and  the  soft  river  gliding  along 
amongst  the  lis})ing  reeds,  mirroring  the  beau- 
tiful clouds  which  the  soft  evening  breeze 
wafted  across  the  sky, — when  I heard  the 
groves  about  me  melodious  with  the  music  of 
birds,  and  saw  the  million  swarms  of  insedls 
dancing  in  the  last  golden  beams  of  the  stin, 
whose  setting  rays  awoke  the  humming  beetles 
from  their  grassy  beds,  whilst  the  subdued 
tumult  around  diredled  my  attention  to  the 
ground,  and  I there  observed  the  arid  rock 
compelled  to  yield  nutriment  to  the  dry  moss, 
whilst  the  heath  flourished  upon  the  barren 
sands  below  me, — all  this  displayed  to  me  the 
inner  warmth  which  animates  all  nature  and 
filled  and  glowed  within  my  heart.  I felt  my- 
self exalted  by  this  overflowing  fulness  to  the 
I)erception  of  the  Godhead,  and  the  glorious 
forms  of  an  infinite  universe  became  visible  to 
my  soul  ! Stupendous  mountains  encompassed  ! 
me,  abysses  yawned  at  my  feet,  and  cataradls  ( 
fell  headlong  down  before  me;  impetuous 
rivers  rolled  through  the  plain,  and  rocks  and  i 
mountains  resounded  from  afar.  In  the  depths 
of  the  earth  I saw  innumerable  powers  in  mo- 
tion and  multi])lying  to  infinity,  whilst  upon 
its  surface  and  beneath  the  heavens  there 


teemed  ten  thousand  varieties  of  living  crea- 
tures. Everything  around  is  alive  with  an 
infinite  number  of  forms,  while  mankind  fly 
for  security  to  their  petty  houses,^  from  the 
shelter  of  which  they  rule  in  their  imagina- 
tions over  the  wide-extended  universe.  Poor 
fool ! in  whose  petty  estimation  all  things  are 
little.  From  the  inaccessible  mountains,  across 
the  desert  which  no  mortal  foot  has  trod,  far 
as  the  confines  of  the  unknown  ocean,  breathes 
the  spirit  of  the  eternal  Creator,  and  every 
atom  to  which  he  has  given  existence  finds 
favor  in  his  sight.  Ah,  how  often  at  that  time 
has  the  flight  of  a bird  soaring  above  my 
head  inspired  me  with  the  desire  of  being 
transported  to  the  shores  of  the  immeasurable 
waters,  there  to  quaff  the  pleasures  of  life  from 
the  foaming  goblet  of  the  Infinite,  and  to  par- 
take, if  but  for  a moment,  even  with  the  con- 
fined powers  of  my  soul,  the  beatitude  of  that 
Creator  who  accomplishes  all  things  in  him- 
self and  through  himself! 

My  dear  friend,  the  bare  recolledlion  of 
those  hours  still  consoles  me.  Even  this  effort 
to  recall  those  ineffable  sensations  and  give 
them  utterance  exalts  my  soul  above  itself,  and 
makes  me  doubly  feel  the  intensity  of  my 
present  anguish. 

It  is  as  if  a curtain  had  been  drawn  from 
before  my  eyes,  and,  instead  of  prospedls  of 
eternal  life,  the  abyss  of  an  ever-open  grave 
yawned  before  me.  Can  we  say  of  anything 
that  it  exists  when  all  passes  away — when  time, 
with  the  speed  of  a storm,  carries  all  things 
onward — and  our  transitory  existence,  hurried 
along  by  the  torrent,  is  either  swallowed  up 
by  the  waves  or  dashed  against  the  rocks? 
There  is  not  a moment  but  preys  upon  you 
and  upon  all  around  you — not  a moment  in 
which  you  do  not  yourself  become  a destroyer. 
The  most  innocent  walk  deprives  of  life  thou- 
sands of  poor  insedls ; one  step  destroys  the 
fabric  of  the  industrious  ant  and  converts  a 
little  world  into  chaos.  No ; it  is  not  the 
great  and  rare  calamities  of  the  world,  the 
floods  which  sweep  away  whole  villages,  the 
earthquakes  which  swallow  up  our  towns,  that 
affedi  me.  My  heart  is  wasted  by  the  thought 
of  that  destrudlive  power  which  lies  concealed 
in  every  part  of  universal  nature.  Nature  has 
formed  nothing  that  does  not  consume  itself 
and  every  objedl  near  it;  so  that,  surrounded 
by  earth  and  air  and  all  the  adlive  powers,  I 
wander  on  my  way  with  aching  heart,  and  the 
tmiverse  is  to  me  a fearful  monster,  forever 
devouring  its  own  offspring. 


314 


August  2 1st. 

In  vain  do  I stretch  out  my  arms  towards 
her  when  I awaken  in  the  morning  from  my 
weary  slumbers.  In  vain  do  I seek  for  her  at 
night  in  my  bed,  when  some  innocent  dream 
i has  happily  deceived  me,  and  placed  her  near 

me  in  the  fields,  when  I have  seized  her  hand 
' and  covered  it  with  countless  kisses.  And 

when  I feel  for  her  in  the  half  confusion  of 
sleep,  with  the  happy  sense  that  she  is  near 
. me,  tears  flow  from  my  oppressed  heart,  and 

bereft  of  all  comfort  I weep  over  my  future 
woes. 

\ 

\ 

August  2 2d. 

What  a misfortune,  Wilhelm  ! My  adtive 
L spirits  have  degenerated  into  contented  indo- 

lence. I cannot  be  idle,  and  yet  I am  unable 
to  set  to  work.  I cannot  think;  I have  no 
longer  any  feeling  for  the  beauties  of  nature, 
and  books  are  distasteful  to  me.  Once  we 
give  ourselves  up,  we  are  totally  lost.  Many 
a time  and  oft  I wish  I were  a common 
laborer — that,  awakening  in  the  morning,  I 
might  have  but  one  prospedt,  one  pursuit,  one 


hope  for  the  day  which  has  dawned.  I often 
envy  Albert  when  I see  him  buried  in  a heap 
of  papers  and  parchments,  and  I fancy  I 
should  be  happy  were  I in  his  place.  Often 
impressed  with  this  feeling,  I have  been  on 
the  point  of  writing  to  you  and  to  the  minis- 
ter for  the  appointment  at  the  embassy,  which 
you  think  I might  obtain.  I believe  I might 
procure  it.  The  minister  has  long  shown  a 
regard  for  me,  and  has  frequently  urged  me 
to  seek  employment.  It  is  the  business  of  an 
hour  only.  Now  and  then  the  fable  of  the 
horse  recurs  to  me.  Weary  of  liberty,  he  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  saddled  and  bridled,  and 
was  ridden  to  death  for  his  pains.  I know 
not  what  to  determine  upon;  for  is  not  this 
anxiety  for  change  the  consequence  of  that 
restless  spirit  which  would  pursue  me  equally 
in  every  situation  of  life? 


August  28th. 

If  my  ills  would  admit  of  any  cure  they 
would  certainly  be  cured  here.  This  is  my 
birthday,  and  early  in  the  morning  I received 
a packet  from  Albert.  Upon  opening  it  I 


found  one  of  the  pink  ribbons  which  Charlotte 
wore  in  her  dress  the  first  time  I saw  her,  and 
which  I had  several  times  asked  her  to  give 
me.  With  it  were  two  volumes  in  duodecimo 
of  Wetstein’s  Homer,  a book  I had  often 
wished  for,  to  save  me  the  inconvenience  of 
carrying  the  large  Ernestine  edition  with  me 
upon  my  walks.  You  see  how  they  anticipate 
my  wishes,  how  well  they  understand  all  those 
little  attentions  of  friendship,  so  superior  to 
the  costly  presents  of  the  great,  which  are  hu- 
miliating. I kissed  the  ribbon  a thousand 
times,  and  in  every  breath  inhaled  the  remem- 
brance of  those  happy  and  irrevocable  days 
which  filled  me  with  the  keenest  joy.  Such, 
^Vilhelm,  is  our  fate.  I do  not  murmur  at  it. 
The  flowers  of  life  are  but  visionary.  How 
many  pass  away  and  leave  no  trace  behind  ! 
how  few  yield  any  fruit ! and  the  fruit  itself, 
how  rarely  does  it  ripen  ! And  yet  there  are 
flowers  enough  ! And  is  it  not  strange,  my 
friend,  that  we  should  suffer  the  little  that  does 
really  ripen,  to  rot,  decay  and  perish  unen- 
joyed ? Farewell  ! It  is  a glorious  summer. 
I often  climb  into  the  trees  in  Charlotte’s  or- 
chard and  shake  down  the  j)ears  that  hang  on 
the  highest  branches.  She  stands  below  and 
catches  them  as  they  fall. 


Augicst  jofli. 

E’^nhappy  being  that  I am  ! Why  do  I thus 
deceive  myself?  What  is  to  come  of  all  this 
wild,  aimless,  endless  passion?  I cannot  pray 
except  to  her.  My  imagination  sees  nothing 
but  her ; all  surrounding  objedts  are  of  no 
account  except  as  they  relate  to  her.  In  this 
dreamy  state  I enjoy  many  happy  hours,  till 
at  length  I feel  compelled  to  tear  myself  away 
from  her.  Ah,  Wilhelm  ! to  what  does  not 
my  heart  often  compel  me ! When  I have 
spent  several  hours  in  her  company,  till  I feel 
completely  absorbed  by  her  figure,  her  grace, 
the  divine  expression  of  her  thoughts,  my 
mind  becomes  gradually  excited  to  the  highest 
excess,  my  sight  grows  dim,  my  hearing  con- 
fused, my  breathing  oppressed  as  if  by  the 
hand  of  a murderer,  and  my  beating  heart 
seeks  to  obtain  relief  for  my  aching  senses.  I 
am  sometimes  unconscious  whether  I really 
exist.  If  in  such  moments  I find  no  sympathy, 
and  Charlotte  does  not  allow  me  to  enjoy  the 
melancholy  consolation  of  bathing  her  hand  i 


with  my  tears,  I feel  compelled  to  tear  myself 
from  her,  when  I either  wander  through  the 
country,  climb  some  precipitous  cliff,  or  force 
a path  through  the  trackless  thicket,  where  I 
am  lacerated  and  torn  by  thorns  and  briars, 
and  thence  I find  relief.  Sometimes  I lie 
stretched  on  the  ground,  overcome  with  fa- 
tigue and  dying  with  thirst.  Sometimes  late 
in  the  night,  when  the  moon  shines  above  me, 
I recline  against  an  aged  tree,  in  some  seques- 
tered forest,  to  rest  my  weary  limbs,  when, 
exhausted  and  worn,  I sleep  till  break  of  day. 

0 Wilhelm  ! the  hermit’s  cell,  his  sackcloth 
and  girdle  of  thorns  would  be  luxury  and  in- 
dulgence compared  with  what  I suffer.  Adieu  ! 

1 see  no  end  to  this  wretchedness  except  the 
grave. 


September  jd. 

I must  away.  Thank  you,  Wilhelm,  for 
determining  my  wavering  purpose.  For  a 
whole  fortnight  I have  thought  of  leaving  her. 
I must  away.  She  is  returned  to  town  and  is 
at  the  house  of  a friend.  And  then,  Albert — 
Yes,  I must  go. 


September  loth. 

Oh,  what  a night,  Wilhelm  ! I can  hence- 
forth bear  anything.  I shall  never  see  her 
again.  Oh,  why  cannot  I fall  on  your  neck, 
and  with  floods  of  tears  and  raptures  give 
utterance  to  all  the  passions  which  distraft  my 
heart  ! Here  I sit  gasping  for  breath  and 
struggling  to  compose  myself.  I wait  for  day, 
and  at  sunrise  the  horses  are  to  be  at  the  door. 

And  she  is  sleeping  calmly,  little  suspedling 
that  she  has  seen  me  for  the  last  time.  I am 
free.  I have  had  the  courage,  in  an  interview 
of  two  hours’  duration,  not  to  betray  my  in- 
tention. And  oh,  Wilhelm  ! what  a conver- 
sation it  was  ! 

Albert  had  promised  to  come  to  Charlotte 
in  the  garden  immediately  after  supper.  I 
was  upon  the  terrace  under  the  tall  chestnut 
trees,  and  watched  the  setting  sun.  I saw  him 
sink  for  the  last  time  beneath  this  delightful 
valley  and  silent  stream.  I had  often  visited 
the  same  spot  with  Charlotte  and  witnessed 
that  glorious  sight,  and  now — I was  walking 
up  and  down  the  very  avenue  which  was  so 
dear  to  me.  A secret  sympathy  had  frequently 


316 


ON  THE  'rERRACE. 


CHAKLOI  I E,  ALIiEKT  AND  WERTHER. 


t 

Jf 


drawn  me  thither  before  I knew  Charlotte, 
and  we  were  delighted  when,  in  our  early 
acquaintance,  we  discovered  that  we  each 
loved  the  same  spot,  which  is  indeed  as  ro- 
mantic as  any  that  ever  captivated  the  fancy 
of  an  artist.  ! 

From  beneath  the  chestnut  trees  there  is  an 
extensive  view.  But  I remember  that  I have 
mentioned  all  this  in  a former  letter,  and  have 
described  the  tall  mass  of  beech  trees  at  the 
end,  and  how  the  avenue  grows  darker  and 
darker  as  it  winds  its  way  among  them,  till  it 
ends  in  a gloomy  recess  which  has  all  the  ' 
charm  of  a mysterious  solitude.  I still  re-  I 
member  the  strange  feeling  of  melancholy 
which  came  over  me  the  first  time  I entered 
that  dark  retreat  at  bright  mid-day.  I felt 
some  secret  foreboding  that  it  would  one  day 
be  to  me  the  scene  of  some  happiness  or 
misery. 

I had  spent  half  an  hour  struggling  between 
the  contending  thoughts  of  going  and  return- 
ing, when  I heard  them  coming  up  the  ter- 
race. I ran  to  meet  them ; I trembled  as  I 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  As  we  reached 
the  top  of  the  terrace  the  moon  rose  from  be- 
hind the  wooded  hill.  We  conversed  on 
many  subjedls,  and  without  perceiving  it  we 
approached  the  gloomy  recess.  Charlotte  en- 
tered and  sat  down.  Albert  seated  himself 
beside  her;  I did  the  same,  but  my  agitation 
did  not  suffer  me  to  remain  long  seated.  I 
got  up  and  stood  before  her,  then  walked 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  sat  down  again. 

I was  restless  and  miserable.  Charlotte  drew 
our  attention  to  the  beautiful  effedl  of  the 
moonlight,  which  threw  a silver  hue  over  the 
terrace  in  front  of  us  beyond  the  beech  trees. 

It  was  a glorious  sight,  and  was  rendered  more 
striking  by  the  darkness  which  surrounded  the 
spot  where  we  were.  We  remained  for  some 
time  silent,  when  Charlotte  observed : “ When- 
ever I walk  by  moonlight  it  brings  to  my 
remembrance  all  my  beloved  and  departed 
friends,  and  I am  filled  with  thoughts  of  death 
and  futurity.  We  shall  live  again,  Werther!  ” 
she  continued,  with  a firm  but  feeling  voice ; 

“ but  shall  we  know  one  another  again  ? What 
do  you  think — what  do  you  say?” 

“ Charlotte  !”  I said,  as  I took  her  hand  in 
mine,  and  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  “we  shall 
see  each  other  again — here  and  hereafter  we 
shall  meet  again.”  I could  say  no  more. 
Why,  Wilhelm,  should  she  put  this  question 
to  me,  just  at  the  moment  when  the  fear  of 
our  cruel  separation  filled  my  heart  ? 


“And  oh!  do  those  departed  ones  know 
how  we  are  employed  here  ? do  they  know 
when  we  are  well  and  happy  ? do  they  know 
when  we  recall  their  memories  with  the  fondest 
love?  In  the  silent  hour  of  evening  the  shade 
of  my  mother  hovers  round  me ; when  seated 
in  the  midst  of  my  children  I see  them  as- 
sembled near  me  as  they  used  to  assemble 
near  her  I and  then  I raise  my  anxious  eyes 
to  heaven,  and  wish  she  could  look  down  upon 
us  and  witness  how  I fulfil  the  promise  I made 
to  her  in  her  last  moments,  to  be  a mother  to 
her  children.  With  what  emotion  do  I then 
exclaim,  ‘Pardon,  dearest  of  mothers,  pardon 
me,  if  I do  not  adequately  supply  your  place. 
x\las  1 I do  my  utmost ; they  are  clothed  and 
fed,  and  still  better,  they  are  loved  and  edu- 
cated. Could  you  but  see,  sweet  saint ! the 
peace  and  harmony  that  dwells  amongst  us, 
you  would  glorify  God  with  the  warmest  feel- 
ings of  gratitude,  to  whom,  in  your  last  hour, 
you  addressed  such  fervent  prayers  for  our 
I happiness.’  ” Thus  did  she  express  herself, 
but  O ! Wilhelm,  who  can  do  justice  to  her 
language,  how  can  cold  and  passionless  words 
: convey  the  heavenly  expressions  of  the  spirit  ? 
Albert  interrupted  her  gently.  “ This  affedts 
you  too  deeply,  my  dear  Charlotte : I know 
' your  soul  dwells  on  such  recolledlions  with  in- 
i tense  delight,  but  I implore — ” “O  Albert,” 
j she  continued,  “ I am  sure  you  do  not  forget 
! the  evenings  when  we  three  used  to  sit  at  the 
little  round  table,  when  papa  was  absent,  and 
the  little  ones  had  retired.  You  often  had  a 
good  book  with  you,  but  seldom  read  it ; the 
conversation  of  that  noble  being  was  prefer- 
able to  everything  — that  beautiful,  bright, 
gentle,  and  yet  ever-toiling  woman.  God 
alone  knows  how  I have  supplicated  with  tears 
on  my  nightly  couch  that  I might  be  like  her.” 

I threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  seizing  them, 
bedewed  them  with  a thousand  tears.  “Char- 
lotte!” I exclaimed,  “God’s  blessing  and 
your  mother’s  spirit  are  upon  you.”  “Oh, 
that  you  had  known  her!”  she  said,  with  a 
warm  pressure  of  the  hand  ; “ she  was  worthy 
of  being  known  to  you.”  I thought  I .should 
have  fainted  ; never  had  I received  praise  so 
I flattering.  She  continued  : “ iknd  yet  she  was 
doomed  to  die  in  the  flower  of  her  youth, 
when  her  j-oungest  child  was  scarcely  six 
‘ months  old.  Her  illness  was  but  short,  but 
she  was  calm  and  resigned — and  it  was  only 
for  her  children,  especially  the  youngest,  that 
she  felt  unhappy.  When  her  end  drew  nigh, 

; she  bade  me  bring  them  to  her.  I obeyed ; 


317 


the  younger  ones  knew  nothing  of  their  ap- 
proaching loss,  while  the  elder  ones  were  quite 
overcome  with  grief.  They  stood  around  the 
bed,  and  she  raised  her  feeble  hands  to  heaven 
and  prayed  over  them,  then  kissing  them  in 
turn  she  dismissed  them,  and  said  to  me:  ‘Be 
you  a"  mother  to  them.’  I gave  her  my  hand. 
‘ You  are  promising  much,  my  child,’  she 
said,  ‘ a mother’s  fondness,  and  a mother’s 
care  ! I have  often  witnessed,  by  your  tears 
of  gratitude,  that  you  know  what  is  a mother’s 
tenderness ; show  it  to  your  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, and  be  dutiful  and  faithful  to  your  father 
as  a wife:  you  will  be  his  comfort.’  She  in- 
quired for  him.  He  had  retired  to  conceal 
his  intolerable  anguish — he  was  heartbroken. 

“Albert!  you  were  in  the  room.  She 
heard  some  one  moving,  slie  inquired  who  it 
was,  and  desired  you  to  approach.  She  sur- 
veyed us  both  with  a look  of  composure  and 
satisfadlion  expressive  of  her  convidlion  that 
we  should  be  happy — happy  with  one  an- 
other.’’ Albert  fell  upon  her  neck  and  kissed 
her,  and  exclaimed,  “We  are  so,  and  we  shall 
be  so.’’  Even  the  composure  of  Albert  was 
moved,  and  I was  excited  beyond  ex])ression. 

“And  such  a being,’’  she  continued,  “was 


to  leave  us,  Werther ! Great  God  ! must  we 
thus  part  with  everything  we  hold  dear  in  this 
world  ? Nobody  felt  this  more  acutely  than 
the  children  ; they  cried  and  lamented  for  a 
long  time  afterwards,  complaining  that  black 
men  had  carried  away  their  dear  mamma.’’ 
Charlotte  stood  up.  It  aroused  me,  but  I 
continued  sitting,  and  held  her  hand.  “Let 
us  go,’’  she  said  j “it  grows  late.’’  She  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  her  hand ; I held  it  still. 
“ We  shall  see  each  other  again,’’  I exclaimed; 
“we  shall  recognize  each  other  under  every 
possible  change.  I am  going,’’  I continued, 
“going  willingly,  but  should  I say  forever, 
perhaps  I may  not  keep  my  word.  Adieu, 
Charlotte ! adieu,  Albert ; we  shall  meet 
again.’’  “Yes,  to-morrow,  I think,’’  she 
answered,  with  a smile.  To-morrow  ! how  I 
felt  the  word  ! Ah  ! she  little  thought  when 
she  drew  her  hand  away  from  mine.  They 
walked  down  the  avenue.  I stood  gazing 
after  them  in  the  moonlight.  I threw  myself 
upon  the  ground  and  wept ; I then  sprang  up 
and  ran  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  saw,  under 
the  shade  of  the  linden  trees,  her  white  dress 
disappearing  near  the  garden  gate.  I stretched 
out  my  arms,  and  she  vanished. 


!i8 


BOOK  II. 


Oclobcr  20th. 

WE  arrived  here  yesterday.  The  am- 
bassador is  indisposed,  and  will  not 
go  out  for  some  days.  If  he  were 
less  peevish  and  morose  all  would  be  well. 
I see  but  too  plainly  that  Heaven  has  destined 
me  to  severe  trials ; but  courage ! a light 
heart  may  bear  anything.  A light  heart ! I 
smile  to  find  such  a word  proceeding  from  my 
pen.  A little  more  lightheartedness  would 
render  me  the  happiest  being  under  the  sun. 
But  must  I despair  of  my  talents  and  faculties, 
whilst  others  of  far  inferior  abilities  parade 
before  me  with  the  utmost  self-satisfadlion  ? 
Gracious  Providence  ! to  whom  I owe  all  my 
powers,  why  didst  thou  not  withhold  some  of 
those  blessings  I possess,  and  substitute  in  their 
place  a feeling  of  self-confidence  and  content- 
ment ? 

But  patience  ! all  will  yet  be  well ; for  I 
assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  you  were  right ; 
since  I have  been  obliged  to  associate  con- 
tinually with  other  people,  and  observe  what 
they  do,  and  how  they  employ  themselves,  I 
have  become  far  better  satisfied  with  myself. 
For  we  are  so  constituted  by  nature  that  we 
are  ever  prone  to  compare  ourselves  with 
others,  and  our  happiness  or  misery  depends 
very  much  on  the  objedls  and  persons  around 
us.  On  this  account,  nothing  is  more  dan- 
gerous than  solitude ; there  our  imagination, 
always  disposed  to  rise,  taking  a new  flight  on 
the  wings  of  fancy,  pidtures  to  us  a chain  of 
beings  of  whom  we  seem  the  most  inferior. 
All  things  appear  greater  than  they  really  are, 
and  all  seem  superior  to  us.  This  operation 
of  the  mind  is  quite  natural;  we  so  continually 
feel  our  own  imperfedlions,  and  fancy  we  per- 


ceive in  others  the  qualities  we  do  not  possess, 
attributing  to  them  also  all  that  we  enjoy  our- 
selves, that  by  this  process  we  form  the  idea 
of  a perfedt,  happy  man — a man,  however, 
who  only  exists  in  our  own  imagination. 

But  when,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  disap- 
pointments, we  set  to  work  in  earnest,  and 
persevere  steadily,  we  often  find  that,  though 
obliged  continually  to  tack,  we  make  more 
way  than  others  who  have  the  assistance  of 
wind  and  tide ; and,  in  truth,  there  can  be  no 
greater  satisfadlion  than  to  keep  pace  with 
others,  or  outstrip  them  in  the  race. 


November  26th. 

I begin  to  find  my  situation  here  more  toler- 
able. I find  a great  advantage  in  being  much 
occupied ; and  the  number  of  persons  I meet, 
and  their  different  pursuits,  create  a varied 
entertainment  for  me.  I have  formed  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  Count  C , and  I esteem 

him  more  and  more  every  day.  He  is  a man 
of  strong  understanding  and  great  discern- 
ment ; but  thougli  he  sees  further  than  other 
people  he  is  not  on  that  account  cold  in  his 
manner,  but  is  capable  of  inspiring  and  re- 
turning the  warmest  affedlion.  He  appeared 
interested  in  me  on  one  occasion  when  I had 
to  transadl  some  business  with  him.  He  per- 
ceived, at  the  first  word,  that  we  understood 
each  other,  and  that  he  could  converse  with 
me  in  a different  tone  from  what  he  used  with 
others.  I cannot  sufficiently  esteem  his  frank 
and  open  kindness  to  me.  It  is  the  greatest 
and  most  genuine  of  pleasures  to  observe  a 
great  mind  in  sympathy  with  our  own. 


3'9 


December  24th. 

As  I anticipated,  the  ambassador  occasions 
me  infinite  annoyance.  He  is  the  most  punc- 
tilious blockhead  under  heaven.  He  does 
everything  step  by  step,  with  the  trifling  min- 
uteness of  an  old  woman,  and  he  is  a man 
whom  it  is  impossible  to  please  because  he  is 
never  pleased  with  himself.  I like  to  do  busi- 
ness regularly  and  cheerfully,  and  when  it  is 
finished,  to  leave  it.  But  he  constantly  re- 
turns my  papers  to  me,  saying,  “They  will 
do,”  but  recommending  me  to  look  over  them 
again,  as  “one  may  always  improve  by  using 
a better  word , or  a more  appropriate  participle.  ’ ’ 
I then  lose  all  patience  and  wish  myself  at  the 
devil.  Not  a conjundtion,  not  an  adverb  must 
be  omitted  ; he  has  a deadly  antipathy  to  all 
those  transpositions  of  which  I am  so  fond, 
and  if  the  music  of  our  j)eriotis  is  not  tuned 
to  the  established  official  key,  he  cannot  com- 
prehend our  meaning.  It  is  deplorable  to  be 
connedfed  with  such  a fellow. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  Count  C is 

the  only  compensation  for  such  an  evil.  He 
told  me  frankly  the  other  day  that  he  was  much 
displeased  with  the  difficulties  and  delays  of 
the  ambassador ; that  people  like  him  are  ob- 
stacles both  to  themselves  and  to  others;  but,” 
added  he,  “one  must  submit  like  a traveller 
who  has  to  ascend  a mountain  ; if  the  moun- 
tain was  not  there  the  road  would  be  both 
shorter  and  pleasanter,  but  there  it  is,  and  he 
must  get  over  it.” 

The  old  man  perceives  the  Count’s  partial- 
ity for  me;  this  annoys  him,  and  he  seizes 
every  opportunity  to  depreciate  the  Count  in 
my  hearing.  I naturally  defend  him,  and 
that  only  renders  matters  worse.  Yesterday 
he  made  a blow  at  me  in  allusion  to  him. 
“The  Count,”  he  said,  “is  a man  of  the 
world  and  a good  man  of  business ; his  style 
is  good,  and  he  writes  with  facility ; but  like 
other  geniuses  he  has  no  solid  learning.”  He 
looked  at  me  with  an  expression  that  seemed  to 
ask  if  I felt  the  blow?  But  it  did  not  produce 
the  desired  effedl : I despise  a man  who  can 
think  and  adt  in  such  a manner.  However,  I 
made  a stand,  and  answered  with  no  little 
warmth.  The  Count,  I said,  was  a man  en- 
titled to  respedl  alike  for  hischaradter  and  his 
acquirements.  I had  never  met  a person 
whose  mind  was  stored  with  more  useful  and 
extensive  knowledge — who  had,  in  fadt,  mas- 
tered such  an  infinite  variety  of  subjedls,  and 
who  yet  retained  all  his  adtivity  for  the  details 


of  ordinary  business.  This  was  altogether 
beyond  his  comprehension  and  I took  my 
leave,  lest  my  anger  should  be  too  highly  ex- 
cited by  some  new  absurdity  on  his  part. 

And  you  are  to  blame  for  all  this,  you  who 
persuaded  me  to  bend  my  neck  to  this  yoke, 
by  preaching  a life  of  adtivity  to  me.  If  the 
man  who  plants  vegetables  and  carries  his 
corn  to  town  on  market-days,  is  not  more  use- 
fully employed  than  I am,  then  let  me  work 
ten  years  longer  at  the  galleys  to  which  I am 
now  chained. 

Oh  ! the  brilliant  wretchedness,  the  weari- 
ness that  one  is  doomed  to  witness  among 
the  silly  people  whom  we  meet  in  society  here  ! 
The  ambition  of  rank  ; how  they  watch,  how 
they  toil  to  gain  precedence!  What  poor  and 
contemptible  passions  are  displayed  in  their 
utter  nakedness!  We  have  a woman  here,  for 
example,  who  never  ceases  to  entertain  the 
company  with  accounts  of  her  family  and  her 
estates.  Any  stranger  would  consider  her  a 
silly  being,  whose  head  was  turned  by  her  pre- 
tensions to  rank  and  property ; but  she  is  in 
reality  even  more  ridiculous  — the  daughter 
of  a mere  magistrate’s  clerk  from  this  neigh- 
borhood. I cannot  understand  how  human 
beings  can  so  debase  themselves. 

Every  day  I observe  more  and  more  the 
folly  of  judging  of  others  by  ourselves ; and  I 
have  so  much  trouble  with  myself,  and  my 
own  heart  is  in  such  constant  agitation,  that 
I am  well  content  to  let  others  pursue  their 
own  course  if  they  only  allow  me  the  same 
privilege. 

What  provokes  me  most  is  the  unhappy  ex- 
tent to  which  distindlions  of  rank  are  carried. 
I know  perfedtly  well  how  necessary  are  in- 
equalities of  condition,  and  I am  sensible  of 
the  advantages  I myself  derive  therefrom — 
but  I would  not  have  these  institutions  prove 
a barrier  to  the  small  chance  of  happiness 
which  I may  enjoy  on  this  earth. 

I have  lately  become  acquainted  with  a Miss 

B , a very  agreeable  girl,  who  has  retained 

her  natural  manners  in  the  midst  of  artificial 
life.  Our  first  conversation  pleased  us  both 
equally,  and  at  taking  leave  I requested  per- 
mission to  visit  her.  She  consented  in  so 
obliging  a manner  that  I waited  with  impa- 
tience for  the  arrival  of  the  happy  moment. 
She  is  not  a native  of  this  place  but  resides 
here  with  her  aunt.  The  countenance  of  the 
old  lady  is  not  prepossessing.  I paid  her 
much  attention,  addressing  the  greater  part 
of  my  conversation  to  her,  and  in  less  than 


320 


half  an  hour  I discovered  what  her  niece 
subsequently  acknowledged  to  me,  that  her 
aged  aunt,  having  but  a small  fortune,  and  a 
still  smaller  share  of  understanding,  enjoys  no 
satisfaflion  except  in  the  pedigree  of  her 
ancestors,  no  protedfion  save  in  her  noble 
birth,  and  no  enjoyment  but  in  looking  from  ' 
her  castle  over  the  heads  of  the  humble  citi-  j 
zens.  She  was,  no  doubt,  handsome  in  her  i 
youth,  and  in  her  early  years  probably  trifled 
away  her  time  in  rendering  many  a poor  youth 
the  sport  of  her  caprice  ; in  her  riper  years  she 
has  submitted  to  the  yoke  of  a veteran  officer, 
who,  in  return  for  her  person  and  her  small  in- 
dependence, has  spent  with  her  what  we  may 
designate  her  age  of  brass.  He  is  dead,  and 
she  is  now  a widow  and  deserted.  She  spends 
her  iron  age  alone,  and  would  not  be  ap- 
proached except  for  the  loveliness  of  her  niece. 


January  8fh,  IJJ2. 

What  beings  are  men,  whose  whole  thoughts  | 
are  occupied  with  form  and  ceremony,  who  j 
for  years  together  devote  their  mental  and  j 
physical  exertions  to  the  task  of  advancing  j 
themselves  but  one  step,  and  endeavoring 
to  occupy  a higher  place  at  the  table.  Not 
that  such  persons  would  otherwise  want  em- 
ployment ; on  the  contrary,  they  give  them- 
selves much  trouble  by  negledling  important 
business  for  such  petty  trifles.  Last  week  a 
question  of  precedence  arose  at  a sledging 
party,  and  all  our  amusement  was  spoiled. 

The  silly  creatures  cannot  see  that  it  is  not 
place  which  constitutes  real  greatness,  since 
the  man  who  occupies  the  first  place  but  sel- 
dom plays  the  principal  part.  How  many 
kings  are  governed  by  their  ministers — how 
many  ministers  by  their  secretaries?  Who, 
in  such  cases,  is  really  the  chief?  He,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  who  can  see  through  the  others, 
and  jiossesses  strength  or  skill  enough  to  make 
their  power  or  passions  subservient  to  the  ex- 
ecution of  his  own  designs. 


January  20th. 

I must  write  to  you  from  this  place,  my  dear 
Charlotte,  from  a small  room  in  a country  inn, 
where  I have  taken  shelter  from  a severe  storm. 
During  my  whole  residence  in  that  wretched 
place  D , where  I lived  amongst  strangers — 


strangers,  indeed,  to  this  heart — I never  at 
any  time  felt  the  smallest  inclination  to  cor- 
respond with  you ; but  in  this  cottage,  in  this 
retirement,  in  this  solitude,  with  the  snow  and 
hail  beating  against  my  lattice-pane,  you  are 
my  first  thought.  The  instant  I entered,  your 
figure  rose  up  before  me,  and  the  remembrance  ! 

0 my  Charlotte,  the  sacred,  tender  remem- 
brance ! Gracious  Heaven  ! restore  to  me 
the  happy  moment  of  our  first  acquaintance. 

Could  you  but  see  me,  my  dear  Charlotte, 
in  the  whirl  of  dissipation  ; how  my  senses 
are  dried  up,  but  my  heart  is  at  no  time  full. 

1 enjoy  no  single  moment  of  happiness ; all  is 
vain — nothing  touches  me.  I stand,  as  it 
were,  before  the  raree-show,  I see  the  little 
puppets  move,  and  I ask  whether  it  is  not  an 
optical  illusion.  I am  amused  with  these  pup- 
pets, or  rather,  I am  myself  one  of  them,  but 
when  I sometimes  grasp  my  neighbor’s  hand, 
I feel  that  it  is  not  natural,  and  I withdraw 
mine  with  a shudder.  In  the  evening  I say 
I will  enjoy  the  next  morning’s  sunrise,  and 
yet  I remain  in  bed ; in  the  day  I promise  to 
ramble  by  moonlight,  and  I nevertheless  re- 
main at  home.  I know  not  why  I rise,  nor 
why  I go  to  sleep. 

The  leaven  which  animated  my  existence  is 
gone,  the  charm  which  cheered  me  in  the 
gloom  of  night  and  aroused  me  from  my  morn- 
ing slumbers,  is  forever  fled. 

I have  found  but  one  being  here  to  interest 

me,  a Miss  B . She  resembles  you,  my 

dear  Charlotte,  if  any  one  can  possibly  re- 
semble you.  “Ah!”  you  will  say,  “he  has 
learned  to  pay  fine  compliments.”  And  this 
is  partly  true.  I have  been  very  agreeable 
lately,  as  it  was  not  in  my  j3ower  to  be  other- 
wise. I have,  moreover,  a deal  of  wit,  and 
the  ladies  say  that  no  one  understands  flattery 
better — or  falsehoods,  you  will  add,  since  the 
one  accomplishment  invariably  accompanies 
the  other.  But  I must  tell  you  of  Miss  B. 
She  has  abundance  of  soul  which  flashes  from 
her  deep  blue  eyes.  Her  rank  is  a torment 
to  her  and  satisfies  no  one  desire  of  her  heart. 
She  would  gladly  retire  from  this  whirl  of 
[ fashion,  and  we  often  pidture  to  ourselves  a 
life  of  undisturbed  happiness  in  distant  scenes 
of  rural  retirement ; and  then  we  speak  of 
you,  my  dear  Charlotte,  for  she  knows  you 
and  renders  homage  to  your  merits,  but  her 
homage  is  not  exadled,  but  voluntary — she 
loves  you  and  delights  to  hear  you  made  the 
subjedi  of  conversation. 

Oh,  that  I were  sitting  at  your  feet  in  your 


321 


favorite  little  room,  with  the  dear  children 
playing  around  us.  If  they  became  trouble- 
some to  you  I would  tell  tliem  some  appalling 
goblin  story,  and  they  would  crowd  around 
me  with  silent  attention.  The  sun  is  setting 
in  glory;  his  last  rays  are  shining  on  the  snow 
which  covers  the  face  of  the  country;  the 
storm  is  over,  and  I must  return  to  my  dun- 
geon. Adieu  ! Is  Albert  with  you,  and  what 
is  he  to  you  ? God  forgive  the  question  ! 


February  8th. 

For  a week  past  we  have  had  the  most 
wretched  weather,  but  this  to  me  is  a blessing, 
for  during  my  residence  here  not  a single  fine 
day  has  beamed  from  the  heavens  but  has 
been  lost  to  me  by  the  intrusion  of  somebody. 
During  the  severity  of  rain,  sleet,  frost  and 
storm,  I congratulate  myself  that  it  cannot  be 
worse  indoors  than  abroad,  nor  worse  abroad 
than  it  is  within  doors,  and  so  I become  rec- 
onciled. When  the  sun  rises  bright  in  the 
morning  and  promises  a glorious  day,  I never 
omit  to  exclaim,  “There  now,  they  have 
another  blessing  from  Heaven  which  they  will 
be  sure  to  destroy;  they  spoil  everything — 
health,  fame,  happiness,  amusement — and  they 
do  this  generally  through  folly,  ignorance,  or 
imbecility,  and  always,  according  to  their  own 
account,  with  the  best  intentions.  I could 
often  beseech  them,  on  my  bended  knees,  to 
be  less  resolved  upon  their  own  destrudtion. 


February  lyfh. 

I fear  that  my  ambassador  and  I shall  not 
continue  much  longer  together.  He  is  really 
growing  past  endurance.  He  transadls  his 
business  in  so  ridiculous  a manner,  that  I am 
often  compelled  to  contradidf  him  and  do 
things  my  own  way,  and  then,  of  course,  he 
thinks  them  very  ill  done.  He  complained 
of  me  lately  on  this  account  at  Court  and  the 
minister  gave  me  a reprimand,— -a  gentle  one 
it  is  true,  but  still  a reprimand.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  I was  about  to  tender  my  resig- 
nation, when  I received  a letter,  to  which  I 
submitted  with  great  respedl  on  account  of 
the  high,  noble  and  generous  spirit  which  dic- 
tated it.  He  endeavored  to  soothe  my  ex- 
cessive sensibility,  paid  a tribute  to  my  extreme 


ideas  of  duty,  of  good  example,  and  of  per- 
severance in  business,  as  the  fruit  of  my  youthful 
ardor, — an  impulse  which  he  did  not  seek  to 
destroy  but  only  to  moderate,  that  it  might 
have  proper  play  and  be  produdtive  of  good. 
So  now  I am  at  rest  for  another  week  and  no 
longer  at  variance  with  myself.  Content  and 
peace  of  mind  are  valuable  things.  I could 
wish,  my  dear  friend,  that  these  precious 
jewels  were  less  transitory. 


February  20th. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  friends,  and  may 
he  grant  you  that  hajjpiness  which  he  denies 
to  me  ! 

I thank  you,  Albert,  for  having  deceived  me. 
I waited  for  the  news  that  your  wedding-day 
was  fixed,  and  I intended  on  that  day,  with 
solemnity,  to  take  down  Charlotte’s  profile 
from  the  wall,  and  to  bury  it  with  some  other 
papers  I possess.  You  are  now  united  and  her 
pifture  still  remains  here.  Well,  let  it  re- 
main ! Why  should  it  not  ? I know  that  I 
am  still  one  of  your  society,  that  I still  occupy 
a place  uninjured  in  Charlotte’s  heart,  that  I 
hold  the  second  place  therein,  and  I intend 
to  keep  it.  Oh  ! I should  become  mad  if  she 
could  forget. — Albert ! that  thought  is  hell. 
Farewell,  Albert — farewell,  angel  of  heaven — 
farewell,  Charlotte  ! 


March  lyth. 

I have  just  had  a sad  adventure  which  will 
drive  me  from  hence.  I lose  all  patience  ! — 
Death  ! — It  is  not  to  be  remedied,  and  you 
are  alone  to  blame,  who  urged  and  impelled 
me  to  fill  a post  for  which  I was  by  no  means 
suited.  I have  now  reason  to  be  satisfied,  and 
so  have  you  ! But  that  you  may  not  again 
attribute  this  fatality  to  my  impetuous  temper, 
I send  you,  my  dear  sir,  a plain  and  simple 
narration  of  the  affair,  as  a mere  chronicler 
of  fadts  w’ould  describe  it. 

The  Count  of  C likes  me,  and  distin- 

guishes me:  it  isw'ell  known,  and  I have  men- 
tioned this  to  you  a hundred  times.  Yesterday 
I dined  w'ith  him ; it  is  the  day  on  which  the 
nobility  are  accustomed  to  assemble  at  his 
house  in  the  evening.  I never  once  thought 
of  the  assembly,  nor  that  w'e  subalterns  did 


not  belong  to  such  society.  Well  ! I dined 
with  the  Count,  and  after  dinner  we  adjourned 
to  the  large  hall ; we  walked  up  and  down 
together,  and  I conversed  with  him  and  with 
Colonel  B.  wlio  joined  us,  and  in  this  manner 
the  hour  for  the  assembly  approached.  God 
knows  I was  thinking  of  nothing,  when  who 
should  enter  but  the  honorable  Lady  S.,  ac- 
companied by  her  noble  husband  and  their 
silly,  scheming  daughter,  with  her  small  waist 
and  flat  neck — and  with  disdainful  looks  and 
a haughty  air,  they  passed  me  by.  As  I 
heartily  detest  the  whole  race,  I determined 
upon  going  away,  and  only  waited  till  the 
Count  had  disengaged  himself  from  their  im- 
pertinent prattle  to  take  leave,  when  the  agree- 
able Miss  B.  came  in.  As  I never  meet  her 
witliout  experiencing  a heartfelt  pleasure,  I 
stayed  and  talked  to  her,  leaning  over  the  bark 
of  her  chair,  and  did  not  perceive  till  after 
some  time  that  she  seemed  a little  confused, 
and  ceased  to  answer  me  with  her  usual  ease 
of  manner.  I was  struck  with  it.  “ Heav- 
ens!” I said  to  myself,  “can  she  too  be  like 
the  rest?”  I felt  annoyed  and  was  about  to 
withdraw;  but  I remained,  notwithstanding, 
forming  excuses  for  her  conduct,  fancying  she 
did  not  mean  it,  and  still  hoping  to  receive 
some  friendly  recognition.  The  rest  of  the 


' company  now  arrived.  There  was  the  Baron 

F in  an  entire  suit  that  dated  from  the 

coronation  of  Francis  I.,  the  Chancellor 

N with  his  deaf  wife,  the  shabbily-dressed 

^ I , whose  old-fashioned  coat  bore  evidence 

■ of  modern  repairs — this  crowned  the  whole. 
I conversed  with  some  of  my  acquaintance, 
but  they  answered  me  laconically.  I was 

engaged  in  observing  Miss  B , and  did 

not  notice  that  the  women  were  whispering 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  that  the  murmur  ex- 
tended by  degrees  to  the  men,  that  Madame 

S addressed  the  Count  with  much  warmth 

(this  was  all  related  to  me  subsequently  by 
I Miss  B.),  till  at  length  the  Count  came  up  to 
1 me  and  took  me  to  the  window. — “You  know 
our  ridiculous  customs,”  he  said;  “I  perceive 
the  company  is  rather  displeased  at  your  being 
here  ; I would  not  on  any  account — ” “ I beg 
your  excellency’s  pardon,”  I exclaimed;  “I 
ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before,  but  I 
know  you  wilt  forgive  this  little  inattention. 
I was  going,”  I added,  “some  time  ago,  but 
my  evil  genius  detained  me,”  and  I smiled 
and  bowed  to  take  my  leave.  He  shook  me 
by  the  hand  in  a manner  which  ex])ressed 
everything.  I hastened  at  once  from  the 
illustrious  assembly,  sprang  into  a carriage 
and  drove  to  M . I contemplated  the 


323 


setting  sun  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  read 
that  beautiful  passage  in  Homer,  where  Ulysses 
is  entertained  by  the  hospitable  herdsmen. 
This  was  indeed  delightful. 

I returned  home  to  supper  in  the  evening. 
But  few  persons  were  assembled  in  the  room ; 
they  had  turned  up  a corner  of  the  table-cloth 
and  were  playing  at  dice.  The  good-natured 

A came  in  ; he  laid  down  his  hat  w'hen 

he  saw  me,  approached  me  and  said,  in  a 
low  tone, — “You  have  met  with  a disagree- 
able adventure.”  “I!”  I exclaimed.  “The 
Count  obliged  you  to  withdraw  from  the  assem- 
bly!” “Deuce  take  the  assembly,”  said  I; 
“I  was  very  glad  to  be  gone.”  “I  am  de- 
lighted,” he  added,  “that  you  take  it  so 
lightly;  I am  only  sorry  that  it  is  already  so 
much  spoken  of.”  The  circumstance  then 
began  to  pain  me.  I fancied  that  every  one 
who  sat  down,  and  even  looked  at  me,  was 
thinking  of  this  incident,  and  my  heart  be- 
came embittered. 

And  now  I could  plunge  a dagger  into  my 
bosom,  when  I hear  myself  everywhere  pitied, 
and  observe  the  triumph  of  my  enemies,  who 
say  that  this  is  always  the  case  with  vain  per- 
sons, whose  heads  are  turned  w’ith  conceit, 
who  affedl  to  despise  forms  and  such  petty, 
idle  nonsense. 

Say  what  you  will  of  fortitude,  but  show  me 
the  man  who  can  patiently  endure  the  laughter 
of  fools  when  they  have  obtained  an  advantage 
over  him.  ’Tis  only  when  their  nonsense  is 
without  foundation  that  one  can  suffer  it  with- 
out complaint. 


March  i6th. 

Everything  conspires  against  me.  I met 

Miss  B walking  to-day.  I could  not  help 

joining  her;  and  when  we  were  at  a little  dis- 
tance from  her  companions  I expressed  my 
sense  of  her  altered  manner  towards  me.  “ O 
^VTrther!”  she  said,  in  a tone  of  emotion, 
“you  who  know  my  heart,  how  could  you  so  ill 
interpret  my  distress?  What  did  I not  suffer 
for  you  from  the  moment  you  entered  the 
room  ! I foresaw  it  all — a hundred  times  w'as 
I on  the  point  of  mentioning  it  to  you.  I 

knew  that  the  S s and  T s,  with  their 

husbands,  would  quit  the  room  rather  than 
remain  in  your  company ; I knew  that  the 
Count  would  not  break  with  them  : and  now 
so  much  is  said  about  it.”  “How!”  I ex- 
claimed, and  endeavored  to  conceal  my  emo- 


I tion,  for  all  that  Adelin  had  mentioned  to  me 
yesterday  recurred  to  me  painfully  at  that  mo- 
ment. “Oh,  how  much  it  has  already  cost 
me!”  said  this  amiable  girl,  while  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  I could  scarcely  contain 
myself,  and  was  ready  to  throw  myself  at  her 
feet.  “Explain  yourself!”  I cried.  Tears 
flowed  down  her  cheeks.  I became  quite 
frantic.  She  wiped  them  away,  without  at- 
tempting to  conceal  them.  “You  know  my 
aunt,”  she  continued — “she  was  present,  and 
in  what  light  does  she  consider  the  affair  ! 
Last  night  and  this  morning,  Werther,  I was 
compelled  to  listen  to  a ledture  upon  my  ac- 
quaintance with  you.  I have  been  obliged  to 
hear  you  condemned  and  depreciated,  and  I 
could  not — I dared  not — say  much  in  )our 
defence.” 

Every  word  she  uttered  was  a dagger  to  my 
heart.  She  did  not  feel  what  a mercy  it  would 
have  been  to  conceal  everything  from  me. 
She  told  me,  in  addition,  all  the  impertinence 
that  w'ould  be  further  circulated,  and  how  the 
malicious  would  triumph ; how  they  would 
rejoice  over  the  punishment  of  my  pride, 
over  my  humiliation  for  that  want  of  esteem 
for  others  with  which  I had  often  been  re- 
proached. To  hear  all  this,  Wilhelm,  uttered 
by  her  in  a voice  of  the  most  sincere  sympathy, 
awakened  all  my  passions,  and  I am  still  in  a 
state  of  extreme  excitement.  I wish  I could 
find  a man  to  jeer  me  about  this  event.  I 
would  sacrifice  him  to  my  resentment ; the 
sight  of  his  blood  might  possibly  be  a relief 
to  my  fury.  A hundred  times  have  I seized 
a dagger  to  give  ease  to  this  oppressed  heart. 
Naturalists  tell  of  a noble  race  of  horses  that 
instindlively  open  a vein  with  their  teeth, 
when  heated  and  exhausted  by  a long  course, 
in  order  to  breathe  more  freely.  I am  often 
tempted  to  open  a vein  to  procure  for  myself 
everlasting  liberty. 


March  24th. 

I have  tendered  my  resignation  to  the 
Court.  I hope  it  will  be  accepted,  and  you 
will  forgive  me  for  not  having  previously  con- 
sulted you.  It  is  necessary  I should  leave  this 
place.  I know  all  you  will  urge  to  induce  me 
to  stay,  and  therefore — . I beg  you  will  soften 

this  news  to  my  mother.  I am  unable  to  do 
anything  for  myself;  how,  then,  should  I be 
competent  to  assist  others?  It  will  afiflidt  her 
that  I should  have  interrupted  that  career 


324 


Sorrows  of  Young  I Yen 


which  would  have  made  me  first  a privy  coun- 
cillor, and  then  minister,  and  that  I should 
look  behind  me  in  place  of  advancing.  Argue 
as  you  will,  combine  all  the  reasons  which 
should  have  induced  me  to  remain — I am 
going;  that  is  sufficient.  But  that  you  may 
not  be  ignorant  of  my  destination,  I may 

mention  that  the  Prince  of is  here.  He 

is  much  pleased  with  my  company;  and 
having  heard  of  my  intention  to  resign,  he 
has  invited  me  to  his  country  house  to  pass 
the  spring  months  with  him.  I shall  be  left 
completely  my  own  master ; and  as  we  agree 
on  all  subjedts  but  one,  I shall  try  my  fortune, 
and  accompany  him. 


April  igth. 

Thanks  for  both  your  letters.  I delayed 
my  rejjly  and  withheld  this  letter  till  I should 
obtain  an  answer  from  the  Court.  I feared 
my  mother  might  apply  to  the  minister  to  de- 
feat my  i)urpose.  But  my  request  is  granted— 
my  resignation  is  accepted.  I shall  not  re- 
count with  what  reliidtance  it  was  accorded, 
nor  relate  what  the  minister  has  written  ; you 
would  only  renew  your  lamentations.  The 
Crown  Prince  has  sent  me  a present  of  five- 
and-twenty  ducats;  and  indeed  such  goodness 
has  affedled  me  to  tears.  For  this  reason  I 
shall  not  require  from  my  mother  thsk^noney 
for  which  I lately  applied. 


May  pill. 

I leave  this  place  to-morrow ; and  as  my 
native  place  is  only  six  miles  from  the  high- 
road, I intend  to  visit  it  once  more,  and  re- 
call the  happy  dreams  of  my  childhood.  I 
shall  enter  at  the  same  gate  through  which  I 
came  with  my  mother,  when,  after  my  father’s 
death,  she  left  that  delightful  retreat  to  immure 
herself  in  your  melancholy  town.  Adieu,  my 
dear  friend ; you  shall  hear  of  my  future  career. 


May  gth. 

I have  paid  my  visit  to  my  native  place  with 
all  the  devotion  of  a pilgrim,  and  have  ex- 
perienced many  unexpedted  emotions.  Near 
the  great  elm  tree,  which  is  a quarter  of  a 
league  from  the  village,  I got  out  of  the 
carriage  and  sent  it  on  before,  that  alone,  and 
on  foot,  I might  enjoy  vividly  and  heartily  all 
the  pleasure  of  my  recolledfions.  I stood 
there  under  that  same  elm  which  was  formerly 
the  term  and  objedt  of  my  walks.  How  things 
have  since  changed  ! Then,  in  happy  ignor- 
ance, I sighed  for  a world  I did  not  know, 
where  I hoped  to  find  every  pleasure  and  en- 
joyment which  my  heart  could  desire ; and 
now,  on  my  return  from  that  wide  world,  O 
my  friend,  how  many  disappointed  hopes  and 
unsuccessful  plans  have  I brought  back  ! 

I contemplated  the  mountains  which  lay 


Sorrows  of  Yoinig  U 'cri/icr. 


Stretched  out  before  me,  and  I thought  how 
often  they  had  been  tlie  objedl  of  my  dearest 
desires.  Here  used  I to  sit  for  liours  together 
with  my  e}es  bent  upon  them,  ardently  long- 
ing to  wander  in  the  shade  of  those  woods — 
to  lose  myself  in  those  valleys,  which  form  so 
delightful  an  objedt  in  the  distance  ! With 
what  reludlance  did  I leave  this  charming  sjrot 
when  my  hour  of  recreation  was  over  and  my 
leave  of  absence  expired  ! I drew  near  to  the 
village — all  the  well-known  old  summer-houses 
and  gardens  were  recognized  again  ; I disliked 
the  new  ones,  and  all  other  alterations  which 
had  taken  place.  I entered  the  village,  and 
all  my  former  feelings  returned.  I cannot, 
my  dear  friend,  enter  into  details,  charming 
as  were  my  sensations ; they  would  be  dull  in 
the  narration.  I had  intended  to  lodge  in 
the  market-place,  near  our  old  house.  As 
soon  as  I entered  I perceived  that  the  school- 
room, where  our  childhood  had  been  taught 
by  that  good  old  woman,  was  converted  into 
a shop.  1 called  to  mind  the  sorrow,  the 
heaviness,  the  tears  and  oppression  of  heart 
which  I experienced  in  that  confinement. 
Every  step  produced  some  particular  impres- 
sion. A pilgrim  in  the  Holy  Land  does  not 
meet  so  many  spots  pregnant  with  tender 
recolledlions,  and  his  soul  is  hardly  moved 
with  greater  devotion.  One  incident  will 
serve  for  illustration.  I followed  the  course 
of  a stream  to  a farm,  formerly  a delightful 
walk  of  mine,  and  I paused  at  the  spot  where 
as  boys  we  used  to  amuse  ourselves  with  making 
ducks  and  drakes  u]>on  the  water.  I recol- 
ledted  so  well  how  I used  formerly  to  watch 
the  course  of  that  same  stream,  following  it 
with  inquiring  eagerness,  forming  romantic 
ideas  of  the  countries  it  was  to  pass  through  ; 
but  my  imagination  was  soon  exhausted,  while 
the  water  continued  flowing  farther  and  farther 
on,  till  my  fancy  became  bewildered  by  the 
contemplation  of  an  invisible  distance.  Ex- 
acflly  such,  my  dear  friend,  so  happy  and  so 
confined,  were  the  thoughts  of  our  good  an- 
cestors. Their  feelings  and  their  poetry  were 
fresh  as  childhood.  And  when  Ulysses  talks 
of  the  immeasurable  sea  and  of  the  boundless 
earth,  his  epithets  are  true,  natural,  deeply  felt 
and  mysterious.  Of  what  importance  is  it 
that  I have  learned  with  every  schoolboy  that 
the  world  is  round  ? Man  needs  but  little 
earth  for  enjoyment,  and  still  less  for  his  final 
repose. 

I am  at  present  with  the  Prince  at  his  hunt- 
ing-lodge. He  is  a man  with  whom  one  can 


live  happily.  He  is  honest  and  unaffedled. 
There  are,  however,  some  strange  charadlers 
about  him,  whom  I cannot  at  all  understand. 
They  do  not  seem  vicious,  and  yet  they  do 
not  carry  the  ajjpearance  of  thoroughly  honest 
men.  Sometimes  1 am  disposed  to  believe 
them  honest,  and  yet  I cannot  persuade  m\  - 
self  to  confide  in  them.  It  grieves  me  to  hear 
the  Prince  occasionally  talk  of  things  which 
he  has  onl\'  read  or  heard  of,  and  always  with 
the  same  view  in  which  they  have  been  repre- 
sented by  others. 

He  values  my  understanding  and  talents 
more  highly  than  he  does  my  heart,  and  1 am 
alone  proud  of  the  latter.  It  is  the  sole  source 
of  everything,  of  our  strength,  of  our  happi- 
ness and  our  misery.  All  the  knowledge  I 
possess  every  one  else  can  acquire,  but  my 
heart  is  exclusively  my  own. 


May  2§th. 

I have  had  a plan  in  my  head,  of  which  I 
did  not  intend  to  speak  to  you  until  it  was 
accomplished.  Now  that  it  has  failed  I may 
as  well  mention  it.  I wished  to  enter  the 
army,  and  had  long  been  desirous  of  taking 
the  step.  This,  indeed,  was  the  chief  reason 
for  my  coming  here  with  the  Prince,  as  he  is 
a general  in  the  service.  I communi- 

cated my  design  to  him  during  one  of  our 
walks  together.  He  disapproved  of  it,  and  it 
would  have  been  adlual  madness  not  to  have 
listened  to  his  reasons. 


Jinic  nth. 

Say  what  you  will,  I can  remain  here  no 
longer.  Why  should  I remain  ? I am  weary 
of  it.  The  Prince  is  as  gracious  to  me  as  any 
one  could  be,  and  yet  I am  not  at  my  ease. 
There  is,  indeed,  nothing  in  common  between 
us.  He  is  a man  of  understanding,  but  quite 
of  the  ordinary  kind.  His  conversation  affords 
me  no  more  amusement  than  I should  derive 
from  the  perusal  of  a well-written  book.  I 
shall  remain  here  a week  longer,  and  then 
start  again  on  my  travels.  My  drawings  are 
the  best  things  I have  done  since  I came  here. 
The  Prince  has  a taste  for  the  arts,  and  would 
improve  if  his  mind  were  not  fettered  by  cold 
rules  and  mere  technical  ideas.  I often  lose 
patience  when,  with  a glowing  imagination  I 


326 


\_Sorrows  of  Young  ll’erther.  | 

am  giving  expression  to  art  and  nature,  he 
interferes  with  learned  suggestions,  and  uses 
at  random  the  technical  phraseology  of  artists. 


July  1 6th. 

Once  more  I am  a wanderer,  a pilgrim, 
through  the  world.  But  what  else  are  you? 


July  j8fh. 

Whither  am  I going?  I will  tell  you  in 
confidence.  I am  obliged  to  continue  a fort- 
night longer  here,  and  then  I think  it  would 

be  better  for  me  to  visit  the  mines  in  . 

But  I am  only  deluding  myself  thus.  The 
fadl  is,  I wish  to  be  near  Charlotte  again — that 
is  all.  I smile  at  the  suggestions  of  my  heart 
and  obey  its  dictates. 


July  2gih. 

No  ! no  ! it  is  yet  well — all  is  well.  I,  her 
husband  ! O God,  who  gave  me  being,  if 
thou  hadst  destined  this  happiness  for  me,  my 
whole  life  would  have  been  one  continual 
thanksgiving  ! But  I will  not  murmur.  For- 
give these  tears  ! forgive  these  fruitless  wishes ! 
She — my  wife  ! Oh,  the  very  thought  of  fold- 
ing that  dearest  of  Heaven’s  creatures  in  my 
arms  ! Dear  Wilhelm,  my  whole  frame  feels 
convulsed  when  I see  Albert  put  his  arms 
around  her  slender  waist  ! 

And  shall  I avow  it  ? Why  should  I not, 
Wilhelm?  She  would  have  been  happier  with 
me  than  with  him  ! Albert  is  not  the  man  to 
satisfy  the  wishes  of  such  a heart.  He  wants 
a certain  sensibility  ; he  wants — in  short,  their 
hearts  do  not  beat  in  unison  ! How  often, 
my  dear  friend,  in  reading  a passage  from 
some  interesting  book,  when  my  heart  and 
Charlotte’s  seemed  to  meet,  and  in  a hundred 
other  instances,  when  our  sentiments  were  un- 
folded by  the  story  of  some  fidlitious  charac- 
ter, have  I felt  that  we  were  made  for  each 
other ! But,  dear  Wilhelm,  he  loves  her  with  ! 
his  whole  soul,  and  what  does  not  such  a love 
deserve  ? 

I have  been  interrupted  by  an  insufferable 
visit.  I have  dried  my  tears  and  composed 
my  thoughts.  Adieu,  my  best  friend  ! 


August  4th. 

I am  not  alone  unfortunate  ! All  men  are 
disappointed  in  their  hopes  and  deceived  in 
their  expedlations.  I have  paid  a visit  to  my 
good  old  woman  under  the  lime  trees.  The 
eldest  boy  ran  out  to  meet  me.  His  exclama- 
tion of  joy  brought  out  his  mother,  but  she 
had  a very  melancholy  look.  Her  first  word 
was,  “Alas  ! dear  sir,  my  little  John  is  dead!” 
He  was  the  youngest  of  her  children.  I was 
silent.  “And  my  husband  has  returned  from 
Switzerland  without  any  money,  and  if  some 
kind  people  had  not  assisted  him  he  must  have 
begged  his  way  home.  He  was  taken  ill  with 
fever  on  his  journey.”  I could  answer  nothing, 
but  made  the  little  one  a present.  She  invited 
me  to  take  some  fruit;  I complied,  and  left 
the  place  with  a sorrowful  heart. 


August  2 1st. 

My  sensations  are  constantly  changing. 
Sometimes  a happy  prospedt  opens  before  me; 
but,  alas!  it  is  only  for  a moment;  and  then 
when  I am  lost  in  reverie  I cannot  help  saying 
to  myself,  “If  Albert  were  to  die? — Yes,  she 
would  become — and  I should  be — ” And  so 
I pursue  a chimera,  till  it  leads  me  to  the  edge 
of  a precipice,  at  which  I shudder. 

When  I pass  through  the  same  gate  and 
walk  along  the  same  road  which  first  con- 
dudted  me  to  Charlotte,  my  heart  sinks  within 
me  at  the  change  that  has  since  taken  place. 
All,  all  is  altered  ! No  sentiment,  no  jjulsa- 
tion  of  my  heart  is  the  same.  My  sensations 
are  such  as  would  occur  to  some  departed 
jirince  whose  spirit  should  return  to  visit  the 
superb  palace  which  he  had  built  in  happy 
times,  adorned  with  costly  magnificence,  and 
left  to  a beloved  son,  but  whose  glory  he 
should  find  de]jarted  and  its  halls  deserted  and 
in  ruins. 


Scptanber  jd. 

I sometimes  cannot  understand  how  she  can 
love  another,  how  she  dares  love  another, 
when  I love  nothing  in  this  world  so  com- 
pletely, so  devotedly,  as  her — when  I know 
only  her,  and  have  no  other  possession  than 
her  in  the  world. 


327 


Scpteynber  4th. 

It  is  even  so  ! As  Nature  puts  on  her  au- 
tumn tints,  it  becomes  autumn  with  me  and 
around  me.  My  leaves  are  sere  and  yellow, 
and  the  neighboring  trees  are  divested  of  their 
foliage.  Do  you  remember  my  writing  to  you 
about  a peasant  boy  shortly  after  my  arrival 


here?  I liave  just  made  inquiries  about  him 
in  Walheim.  'I'hey  say  he  has  been  dismissed 
from  his  service,  and  is  now  avoided  by  every 
one.  I met  him  yesterday  on  the  road,  going 
to  a neighboring  village.  I spoke  to  him,  and 
he  told  me  his  story.  It  interested  me  exceed- 
ingly, as  you  will  easily  understand  when  I 
repeat  it  to  you.  But  why  should  I trouble 
you  ? Why  should  I not  reserve  all  my  sorrow 
for  myself?  Why  should  I continue  to  give 
you  occasion  to  ])ity  and  blame  me?  But  no 
matter;  this  also  is  part  of  my  destiny. 

At  first  the  peasant  lad  answered  my  in- 
quiries with  a sort  of  subdued  melancholy, 
which  seemed  to  me  the  mark  of  a timid  dis- 
position; but  as  we  grew  to  understand  each 
other  he  spoke  with  less  reserve,  and  openly 
confessed  his  faults  and  lamented  his  misfor- 
tune. I wish,  my  dear  friend,  I could  give 
])roper  expression  to  his  language.  He  told 
me,  with  a sort  of  pleasurable  recolledtion, 
that  after  my  departure  his  passion  for  his  mis- 
tress increased  daily,  until  at  last  he  neither 
knew  what  he  did  nor  what  he  said,  nor  what 
was  to  become  of  him.  He  could  neither  eat. 


nor  drink,  nor  sleep  ; he  felt  a sense  of  suffo- 
cation ; he  disobeyed  all  orders,  and  forgot  all 
commands  involuntarily;  he  seemed  as  if  pur- 
sued by  an  evil  spirit;  till  one  day,  knowing 
that  his  mistress  had  gone  to  an  upper  cham- 
ber, he  followed  her,  or  rather  felt  attradled 
after  her.  As  she  proved  deaf  to  his  en- 
treaties, he  had  recourse  to  violence.  He 
knows  not  what  happened,  but  he  called  God 
to  witness  that  his  intentions  to  her  were  hon- 
orable, and  that  he  desired  nothing  more  sin- 
cerely than  that  they  should  marry  and  pass 
their  lives  together.  When  he  had  come  to 
this  point  he  began  to  hesitate,  as  if  there  was 
something  which  he  had  not  courage  to  utter, 
till  at  length  he  acknowledged  with  some  con- 
fusion certain  little  confidences  which  she  had 
encouraged  and  freedoms  which  she  had  al- 
lowed. He  broke  off  two  or  three  times  in  his 
narration,  and  assured  me  most  earnestly  that 
he  had  no  wish  to  make  her  bad,  as  he  termed 
it,  for  he  loved  her  still  as  sincerely  as  ever; 
that  the  tale  had  never  before  escaped  his  lips, 
and  was  only  now  told  to  convince  me  that  he 
was  not  utterly  lost  and  abandoned.  And 
here,  my  dear  friend,  I must  commence  the 
old  song,  which  you  know  I utter  eternally. 
If  I could  only  represent  the  man  as  he  stood 
and  stands  now  before  me — could  I only  give 
his  true  expressions — you  would  feel  compelled 
to  sympathize  in  his  fate.  But  enough.  You, 
who  know  my  misfortune  and  my  disposition, 
can  easily  comprehend  the  attradlion  which 
draws  me  towards  every  unfortunate  being,  but 
particularly  towards  him  whose  story  I have 
recounted. 

Upon  perusing  this  letter  a second  time,  I 
find  I have  omitted  the  conclusion  of  my  tale, 
but  it  is  easily  supplied.  She  became  reserved 
towards  him,  at  the  instigation  of  her  brother, 
who  had  long  hated  him,  and  desired  his  ex- 
pulsion from  the  house,  fearing  that  his  sister’s 
second  marriage  might  deprive  his  children 
of  the  handsome  fortune  which  they  expedted 
from  her,  as  she  is  childless.  He  was  dis- 
missed at  length,  and  the  whole  affair  occa- 
sioned so  much  scandal  that  the  mistress 
dared  not  take  him  back,  even  if  she  had 
wished  it.  She  has  since  hired  another  ser- 
vant, with  whom,  they  say,  the  brother  is 
equally  displeased,  and  whom  she  is  likely  to 
marry;  but  my  informant  assures  me  that  he 
himself  is  determined  not  to  survive  such  a 
catastrophe. 

This  story  is  neither  exaggerated  nor  em- 
bellished ; indeed,  I have  weakened  and  im- 


Sonvrvs  of  Yoiin"  JVcrthcr. 


paired  it  in  the  narration,  by  the  necessity  of 
using  the  more  refined  expressions  of  society. 

This  love,  then,  this  constancy,  this  passion 
is  no  poetical  fidtion.  It  is  adlnal,  and  dwells 
in  its  greatest  purity  amongst  that  class  of 
mankind  whom  we  term  rude,  uneducated. 
We  are  the  educated,  not  the  perverted  ! But 
read  this  story  with  attention,  1 implore  you. 
I am  tranquil  to-day,  for  I have  been  employed 
upon  this  narration;  you  see  by  my  writing 
that  I am  not  so  agitated  as  usual.  Read  and 
re-read  this  tale,  Wilhelm  ! it  is  the  history 
of  your  friend.  My  fortune  has  been  and 
will  be  similar  ; and  I am  neither  half  so  brave 
nor  half  so  determined  as  the  poor  wretch 
with  whom  I hesitate  to  compare  myself. 


September  jfh. 

Charlotte  had  written  a letter  to  her  husband 
in  the  country,  where  he  was  detained  by 
business.  It  commenced,  “ My  dearest  love, 
return  as  soon  as  possible  ; I await  you  with  a 


thousand  raptures.”  A friend  who  arrived 
brought  word  that,  for  certain  reasons,  he 
could  not  return  immediately.  Charlotte’s 
letter  was  not  forwarded,  and  the  same  even- 
ing it  fell  into  my  hands.  I read  it  and 
smiled.  She  asked  the  reason.  ‘AVhat  a 
heavenly  treasure  is  imagination  !”  I ex- 
claimed; ‘‘I  fancied  for  a moment  that  this 
was  written  to  me!”  She  paused  and  seemed 
displeased.  I was  silent. 


September  6th. 

It  cost  me  much  to  part  with  the  blue  coat 
which  I wore  the  first  time  I danced  with 
Charlotte.  But  I could  not  possibly  wear  it 
any  longer.  But  I have  ordered  a new  one, 
precisely  similar,  even  to  the  collar  and  sleeves, 
as  well  as  a new  waistcoat  and  pantaloons. 

But  it  does  not  produce  the  same  effedl  upon 
me.  I know  not  how  it  is ; but  I hope  in 
time  I shall  like  it  better. 


329 


St'piembcr  1 2th. 

She  has  been  absent  for  some  days.  She 
went  to  meet  Albert.  To-day  I visited  her ; 
she  rose  to  receive  me,  and  I kissed  her  hand 
most  tenderly. 

A canary  at  the  moment  flew  from  a mirror 
and  settled  upon  her  shoulder.  “ Here  is  a 
new  friend,”  she  observed,  while  she  made 
him  perch  upon  her  hand;  “he  is  a present 
for  the  children.  What  a dear  he  is  ! Look 
at  him ! When  I feed  him  he  flutters  with 
his  wings,  and  pecks  so  nicely.  He  kisses  me, 
too — only  look  !” 

She  held  the  bird  to  her  mouth,  and  he 
pressed  her  sweet  lips  with  so  much  fervor, 
that  he  seemed  to  feel  the  excess  of  bliss  which 
he  enjoyed. 

“He  shall  kiss  you,  too,”  she  added,  and 
then  she  held  the  bird  towards  me.  His  little 
beak  moved  from  her  mouth  to  mine,  and  the 
delightful  sensation  seemed  like  the  forerunner 
of  the  sweetest  bliss. 

“A  kiss,”  I observed,  “does  not  seem  to 
satisfy  him  ; he  wishes  for  food,  and  seems 
disappointed  by  these  unsatisfadtory  endear- 
ments.” 

“But  he  eats  out  of  my  mouth,”  she  con- 
tinued, and  extended  her  lips  to  him  contain- 
ing seed,  and  she  smiled  with  all  the  charm  of 
a being  who  has  allowed  an  innocent  partici- 
pation of  her  love. 

I turned  my  head  away.  She  should  not 
adt  thus.  She  ought  not  to  excite  my  imagi- 
nation with  such  displays  of  heavenly  inno- 
cence and  happiness,  nor  awaken  my  heart 
from  its  slumbers,  in  which  it  dreams  of  the 
worthlessness  of  life  ! And  why  not  ? Be- 
cause she  knows  how  much  I love  her. 


September  ipth. 

It  makes  me  wretched,  Wilhelm,  to  think 
that  there  should  be  men  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating the  few  things  which  possess  a real 
value  in  life.  You  remember  the  walnut  trees 
at  S , under  which  I used  to  sit  with  Char- 

lotte during  my  visits  to  the  worthy  old  vicar. 
Those  glorious  trees,  the  very  sight  of  which 
has  so  often  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  how  they 
adorned  and  refreshed  the  parsonage  yard, 
with  their  wide  extended  branches  ! and  how 
pleasing  was  our  remembrance  of  the  good 
old  pastor,  by  whose  hands  they  were  planted 


so  many  years  ago  ! The  schoolmaster  has 
frecjuently  mentioned  his  name.  He  had  it 
from  his  grandfather.  He  must  have  been  a 
most  excellent  man,  and  under  the  shade  of 
those  old  trees  his  memory  was  ever  venerated 
by  me.  The  schoolmaster  informed  us  yester- 
day, with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  those  trees 
had  been  felled.  Yes,  cut  to  the  ground  ! I 
could  in  my  wrath  have  slain  the  monster  who 
struck  the  first  stroke.  And  I must  endure 
this  ! — I who,  if  I had  had  two  such  trees  in  my 
own  court,  and  one  had  died  from  old  age, 
should  have  wept  with  real  affbdlion.  But 
there  is  some  comfort  left — such  a thing  is 
sentiment — the  whole  village  murmurs  at  the 
misfortune,  and  I hope  the  vicar’s  wife  will 
soon  find,  by  the  cessation  of  the  villagers’ 
presents,  what  a wound  she  has  inflidted  upon 
the  feelings  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was 
she  who  did  it — the  wife  of  the  present  in- 
cumbent (our  good  old  man  is  dead) — a tall, 
sickly  creature,  who  is  so  far  right  to  disregard 
the  world,  as  the  world  totally  disregards  her. 
The  silly  being  affedls  to  be  learned,  pretends 
to  examine  the  canonical  books,  lends  her  aid 
towards  the  new-fashioned  reformation  of 
Christendom,  moral  and  critical,  and  shrugs 
up  her  shoulders  at  the  mention  of  Lavater’s 
enthusiasm.  Her  health  is  destroyed,  which 
prevents  her  from  having  any  enjoyment  here 
below.  Such  a creature  alone  could  have  cut 
down  my  walnut  trees  ! I can  never  pardon 
it.  Hear  her  reasons.  The  falling  leaves 
made  the  court  wet  and  dirt}’,  the  branches 
obstrudled  the  light,  boys  threw  stones  at  the 
nuts  when  they  were  ripe,  and  the  noise 
affedted  her  nerves  and  disturbed  her  profound 
meditations,  when  she  was  weighing  the  diffi- 
culties of  Kennicot,  Semler  and  Michaelis. 
Finding  that  all  the  parish,  particularly  the 
old  people,  were  displeased,  I asked  “why 
they  allowed  it ?”  “Ah,  sir!”  they  replied, 
“when  the  steward  orders,  what  can  we  poor 
peasants  do?”  But  one  thing  has  happened 
well.  The  steward  and  the  vicar  (who  for 
once  thought  to  reap  some  advantage  from  the 
caprices  of  his  wife)  intended  to  divide  the 
trees  between  them.  The  revenue-office  being 
informed  of  it,  revived  an  old  claim  to  the 
ground  where  the  trees  had  stood,  and  sold 
them  to  the  best  bidder.  There  they  still  lie 
on  the  ground.  If  I were  the  sovereign  I 
should  know  how  to  deal  with  them  all — vicar, 
steward  and  revenue-office.  Sovereign  did  I 
say?  I should  in  that  case  care  little  about 
the  trees  that  grew  in  the  country. 


33° 


Ofloher  loth. 

Only  to  gaze  upon  her  dark  eyes  is  to  me  a 
source  of  happiness  ! And  what  grieves  me 
is,  that  Albert  does  not  seem  so  happy  as  he — 
hoped  to  be — as  I should  have  been — if — . I 
am  no  friend  to  these  pauses,  but  here  I cannot 
express  myself  otherwise ; and  probably  I am 
explicit  enough. 


OHobcr  1 2 th. 

Ossian  has  superseded  Homer  in  my  heart. 
To  what  a world  does  the  illustrious  bard  carry 
me ! To  wander  over  pathless  wilds,  sur- 
rounded by  impetuous  whirlwinds,  where,  by 
the  feeble  light  of  the  moon,  we  see  the  spirits 
of  our  ancestors;  to  hear  from  the  mountain- 
tops,  mid  the  roar  of  torrents,  their  plaintive 
sounds  issuing  from  deep  caverns,  and  the  sor- 
rowful lamentations  of  a maiden  who  sighs 
and  expires  on  the  mossy  tomb  of  the  warrior 
by  whom  she  was  adored.  I meet  this  bard 
with  silver  hair;  he  wanders  in  the  valley,  he 
seeks  the  footsteps  of  his  fathers,  and,  alas  ! 
he  finds  only  their  tombs.  Then  contem- 
plating the  pale  moon,  as  she  sinks  beneath 
the  waves  of  the  rolling  sea,  the  memory  of 
bygone  days  strikes  the  mind  of  the  hero,- — • 
days,  when  approaching  danger  invigorated 
the  brave,  and  the  moon  shone  upon  his  bark 
laden  with  spoils  and  returning  in  triumph. 
When  I read  in  his  countenance  deep  sorrow, 
when  I see  his  dying  glory  sink,  exhausted, 
into  the  grave,  as  he  inhales  new  and  heart- 
thrilling  delight  from  his  approaching  union 
with  his  beloved,  and  he  casts  a look  on  the 
cold  earth  and  the  tall  grass  which  is  so  soon 
to  cover  him,  and  then  exclaims,  “The  trav- 
eller will  come — he  will  come  who  has  seen 
my  beauty,  and  he  will  ask,  where  is  the  bard 
— where  is  the  illustrious  son  of  Fingal  ? He 
will  walk  over  my  tomb,  and  will  seek  me  in 
vain  !”  Then,  O my  friend,  I could  instantly, 
like  a true  and  noble  knight,  draw  my  sword, 
and  deliver  my  prince  from  the  long  and  pain- 
ful languor  of  a living  death,  and  dismiss  my 
own  soul  to  follow  the  demigod  whom  my 
hand  had  set  free. 


Ofloher  igfh. 

Alas  ! the  void — the  fearful  void,  which  I 
feel  in  my  bosom  ! Sometimes  I think  if  I 
could  only  once — but  once — press  her  to  my 
heart,  this  dreadful  void  would  be  filled. 


Obloher  26th. 

Yes,  I feel  certain,  Wilhelm,  and  every  day 
I become  more  certain,  that  the  existence  of 
any  being  whatever  is  of  very  little  conse- 
quence. A friend  of  Charlotte’s  called  to  see 
her  just  now;  I withdrew  into  a neighboring 
apartment  and  took  up  a book ; but  finding 
I could  not  read  I sat  down  to  write.  I heard 
their  conversation ; they  spoke  upon  ordinary 
topics,  and  retailed  the  news  of  the  town. 
One  was  going  to  be  married,  another  was  ill, 
very  ill — she  had  a dry  cough;  her  face  was 
growing  thinner  daily,  and  she  had  occasional 
fits.  “N is  very  unwell,  too,”  said  Char- 

lotte. “His  limbs  begin  to  swell  already,” 
answered  the  other,  and  my  lively  imagination 
carried  me  at  once  to  the  beds  of  the  infirm. 
There  I see  them  struggling  against  death, 
with  all  the  agonies  of  pain  and  horror;  and 
these  women,  Wilhelm,  talk  of  all  this  with  as 
much  indifference  as  one  would  mention  the 
death  of  a stranger.  And  when  I look  around 
the  apartment  where  I now  am, — when  I see 
Charlotte’s  apparel  lying  before  me,  and  Al- 
bert’s writings,  and  all  those  articles  of  furni- 
ture which  are  so  familiar  to  me,  even  to  the 
very  inkstand  which  I am  using, — when  I 
think  what  I am  to  this  family — everything. 
My  friends  esteem  me ; I often  contribute  to 
their  happiness,  and  my  heart  seems  as  if  it 
could  not  beat  without  them;  and  yet — if  I 
were  to  die,  if  I were  to  be  summoned  from 
the  midst  of  this  circle,  would  they  feel — or 
how  long  would  they  feel,  the  void  which  my 
loss  would  make  in  their  existence?  How 
long!  Yes,  such  is  the  frailty  of  man,  that 
even  there,  where  he  has  the  greatest  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  being,  where  he  makes 
the  strongest  and  most  forcible  impression, 
even  in  the  memory,  in  the  heart  of  his  be- 
loved, there  also  he  must  perish — vanish — and 
that  quickly. 


Oflober  2‘/th. 

I could  tear  open  my  bosom  with  vexation 
to  think  how  little  we  are  capable  of  influ- 
encing the  feelings  of  each  other.  No  one 
can  communicate  to  me  those  sensations  of 
love,  joy,  rapture  and  delight  which  I do  not 
naturally  possess;  and  though  my  heart  may 
glow  with  the  most  lively  affedtion,  I cannot 
make  the  happiness  of  one  in  whom  the  same 
warmth  is  not  inherent. 


331 


OFloher  2~th.  F.z'ening. 

I possess  so  much,  but  my  Jove  for  lier 
absorbs  it  all.  I possess  so  much,  but  without 
her  I have  nothing. 


Oflobcr  joth. 

One  hundred  times  have  I been  on  the  point 
of  embracing  her.  Heavens!  what  a torment 
it  is  to  see  so  much  loveliness  passing  and  re- 
passing before  us,  and  yet  not  dare  to  touch 
it ! And  to  touch  is  the  most  natural  of 
human  instindts.  Do  not  children  touch 
everything  they  see  ? And  1 1 


November  jd. 

Witness  Heaven  how  often  I lie  down  in 
my  bed  with  a wish,  and  even  a hope,  that  I 
may  never  awaken  again  ! and  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  I open  my  eyes,  I behold  the  sun 
once  more,  and  am  wretched.  If  I were  whim- 
sical I might  blame  the  weather,  or  an 
acquaintance,  or  some  personal  disappoint- 
ment, for  my  discontented  mind,  and  then  this 
insupportable  load  of  trouble  would  not  rest 
entirely  upon  myself.  But,  alas!  I feel  it  too 
sadly.  I am  alone  the  cause  of  my  own  woe — 
am  I not?  Truly,  my  own  bosom  contains 
the  source  of  all  my  sorrow,  as  it  previously 
contained  the  source  of  all  my  pleasure.  Am 
1 not  the  same  being  who  once  enjoyed  an  ex- 
cess of  happiness — who,  at  every  step,  saw 
paradise  open  before  him,  and  whose  heart 
was  ever  expanded  towards  the  whole  world  ? 
And  this  heart  is  now  dead ; no  sentiment 
can  revive  it:  my  eyes  are  dry,  and  my  senses, 
no  more  refreshed  by  the  influence  of  soft 
tears,  wither  and  consume  my  brain.  I suffer 
much,  for  I have  lost  the  only  charm  of  life  ; 
that  adtive  sacred  power  which  created  worlds 
around  me — it  is  no  more.  When  I look 
from  my  window  at  the  distant  hills,  and  be- 
hold the  morning  sun  breaking  through  the 
mists,  and  illuminating  the  country  around, 
which  is  still  wrapt  in  silence,  whilst  the  soft 
stream  winds  gently  through  the  willows  which 
have  shed  their  leaves;  when  glorious  Nature 
displays  all  her  beauties  before  me,  and  her 
wondrous  prospefts  are  ineffedtual  to  extradf 
one  tear  of  joy  from  my  withered  heart ; I 
feel  that  in  such  a moment  I stand  like  a 


reprobate  before  Heaven,  hardened,  insensible 
and  unmoved.  Oftentimes  do  I then  bend 
my  knee  to  the  earth,  and  implore  God  for 
the  blessing  of  tears,  as  the  desponding  la- 
borer, in  some  scorching  climate,  prays  for 
the  dews  of  heaven  to  moisten  his  parched  corn. 

But  I feel  that  God  does  not  grant  sunshine 
or  rain  to  our  importunate  entreaties.  And  O 
those  bygone  days,  whose  memory  now  tor- 
ments me,  why  were  they  so  fortunate?  Be- 
cause I then  waited  with  patience  for  the  bless- 
ings of  the  Eternal,  and  received  his  gifts  with 
the  grateful  feelings  of  a thankful  heart. 


November  8th. 

Charlotte  has  reproved  me  for  my  excesses 
with  so  much  tenderness  and  goodness.  I 
have  lately  drunk  more  wine  than  usual. 
“Don’t  do  it!’’  she  said;  “think  of  Char- 
lotte!” “ Think  of  you  ! ” I answered  ; ‘ ‘ can 
such  advice  be  necessary — do  I not  ever  think 
of  you?  And  yet  mine  are  not  thoughts; 
you  live  within  my  soul.  This  very  morning 
I was  sitting  in  the  spot  where,  a few  days  ago, 
you  descended  from  the  carriage,  and — .” 
She  immediately  changed  the  subjedt,  to  pre- 
vent me  from  pursuing  it  further.  My  dear 
friend,  my  energies  are  all  prostrated ; she 
can  do  with  me  what  she  pleases. 


November  l^th. 

I thank  you,  Wilhelm,  for  your  cordial  sym- 
pathy, for  your  excellent  advice,  and  I implore 
you  to  be  quiet.  Leave  me  to  my  sufferings. 
In  spite  of  my  wretchedness,  I have  still 
strength  enough  for  endurance.  I revere  re- 
ligion— you  know  I do.  I feel  that  it  can 
impart  strength  to  the  feeble,  and  comfort  to 
the  afflidled  ; but  does  it  affedf  all  men  equally? 
Consider  this  vast  universe;  you  will  see  thou- 
sands for  whom  it  has  never  existed,  thousands 
for  whom  it  will  never  exist,  whether  it  be 
preached  to  them  or  not ; and  must  it  then 
necessarily  exist  for  me?  Does  not  the  Son 
of  God  himself  say,  that  they  are  his  whom 
the  Father  has  given  to  him?  Have  I been 
given  to  him?  What  if  the  Father  will  retain 
me  for  himself,  as  my  heart  sometimes  sug- 
gests ? I pray  you  do  not  misinterpret  this. 
Do  not  extradl  derision  from  my  harmless  words. 


332 


artist:  C.  BOSCH. 


AT  'HIE  HARPSICHORD. 


CHARLOTTE  AND  WEKTHRR, 


I pour  out  my  whole  soul  before  you.  Silence 
were  otherwise  preferable  to  me : but  I need 
not  shrink  from  a subjedt  of  which  few  know 
more  than  I do  myself  What  is  the  destiny 
of  man,  but  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  suffer- 
ings, and  to  drink  his  allotted  cup  of  bitter- 
ness ? And  if  that  same  cup  proved  bitter  to 
the  God  of  Heaven,  under  a human  form,  why 
should  I affedl  a foolish  pride  and  call  it  sweet? 
Why  should  I be  asliamed  of  shrinking  at  that 
fearful  moment,  when  my  whole  being  will 
tremble  between  existence  and  annihilation  ; 
when  a remembrance  of  the  past,  like  a flash 
of  lightning,  will  illuminate  the  dark  gulf 
of  futurity,  when  everything  shall  dissolve 
around  me,  and  the  whole  world  vanish 
away  ? Is  not  this  the  voice  of  a creature 
oppressed  beyond  all  resource,  self-deficient, 
about  to  plunge  into  inevitable  destruc- 
tion, and  groaning  deeply  at  its  inadequate 
strength — “ My  God  ! my  God  ! why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me?”  And  should  I feel 
ashamed  to  utter  the  same  expression  ? Should 
I not  shudder  at  a prospedt  which  had  its  fears, 
even  for  Him  who  spread  out  the  heavens  like 
a garment? 


November  2isf. 

She  does  not  feel,  she  does  not  know,  that 
she  is  preparing  a poison  which  will  destroy 
us  both  ; and  I drink  deeply  of  the  draught 
which  is  to  prove  my  destrudlion.  What 
mean  those  looks  of  kindness  with  which  she 
often — often — no,  not  often,  but  sometimes  re- 
gards me, — that  complacency  with  which  she 
hears  the  involuntary  sentiments  which  fre- 
quently escape  me,  and  the  tender  pity  for  my 
sufferings  which  appears  in  her  countenance? 

Yesterday,  when  I took  leave,  she  seized  me 
by  the  hand  and  said,  “Adieu,  dear  Wer- 
ther  !”  Dear  Werther  ! — It  was  the  first  time 
she  ever  called  me  dear ; the  sound  sunk  deep 
into  my  heart.  I have  repeated  it  a hundred 
times,  and  yesterday  night,  on  going  to  bed, 
and  talking  to  myself  of  various  things,  I sud- 
denly said,  “Good-night,  dear  Werther!”  I 
recolledled  myself  and  laughed. 


November  22d. 

I cannot  pray  for  strength  to  renounce  her, 
for  she  seems  to  belong  to  me.  I cannot  pray 
that  she  may  be  given  to  me,  for  she  is  the 


property  of  another.  In  this  way  I affedt 
mirth  over  my  troubles,  and  if  I had  time  I 
could  compose  a whole  litany  of  antitheses. 


November  24th. 

She  is  sensible  of  my  sufferings.  This  morn- 
ing her  look  pierced  my  very  soul.  I found 
her  alone,  and  she  was  silent ; she  steadfastly 
surveyed  me.  I no  longer  saw  in  her  face  the 
charms  of  beauty  or  the  fire  of  genius — these 
had  disappeared.  But  I was  alfedted  by  an 
expression  much  more  touching — a look  of  the 
deepest  sympathy  and  of  the  softest  pity.  Why 
was  I afraid  to  throw  myself  at  her  feet?  Why 
did  I not  dare  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  and 
answer  her  by  a thousand  kisses?  She  had 
recourse  to  her  piano  for  relief,  and  in  a low 
and  sweet  voice  accompanied  the  music  with 
delicious  sounds.  Her  lips  never  appeared  so 
lovely;  they  seemed  but  just  to  open  that  they 
might  imbibe  the  sweet  tones  which  issued 
from  the  instrument,  and  return  the  heavenly 
vibration  from  her  lovely  mouth.  Oh  ! who 
can  express  my  sensations  ? I was  quite  over- 
come, and  bending  down,  pronounced  this 
vow:  “ Beautiful  lips,  which  the  angels  guard, 
never  will  I seek  to  profane  your  purity  with 
a kiss.”  And  yet,  my  friend,  oh,  I wish — but 
my  heart  is  darkened  by  doubt  and  inde- 
cision— could  I but  taste  felicity  and  then  die 
to  expiate  the  sin.  What  sin  ? 


November  26th. 

Oftentimes  I say  to  myself,  “ Thou  alone 
art  wretched  ; all  other  mortals  are  happy — ■ 
none  are  distressed  like  thee  ! Then  I read 
a jtassage  in  an  ancient  poet,  and  I seem  to 
understand  my  own  heart.  I have  so  much 
to  endure  ! Have  men  before  me  ever  been 
so  wretched  ? 


November  joth . 

I shall  never  be  myself  again  ! Wherever  I 
go  some  fatality  occurs  to  distradl  me.  Even 
to-day — alas,  for  our  destiny  ! alas,  for  human 
nature  I 

About  dinner-time  I went  to  walk  by  the 
river  side,  for  I had  no  appetite.  Everything 


333 


around  seemed  gloomy ; a cold  and  damp 
easterly  wind  blew  from  the  mountains,  and 
black  heavy  clouds  spread  over  the  plain.  I 
observed  a man  at  a distance  in  a tattered 
coat ; he  was  wandering  among  the  rocks,  and 
seemed  to  be  looking  for  plants.  When  I ap- 
proached he  turned  round  at  the  noise,  and  1 
saw  that  he  had  an  interesting  countenance, 
in  which  a settled  melancholy,  strongly  marked 
by  benevolence,  formed  the  principal  feature. 
His  long  black  hair  was  divided,  and  flowed 
over  his  shoulders.  As  his  garb  betokened  a 
person  of  the  lower  order,  I thought  he  would 
not  take  it  ill  if  I inquired  about  his  business, 
and  I therefore  asked  what  he  was  seeking  for. 
He  replied,  with  a deep  sigh,  that  he  was  look- 
ing for  flowers  and  could  And  none.  “ But  it 
is  not  the  season,”  I observed,  with  a smile. 
“ Oh,  there  are  so  many  flowers,”  he  answered, 
as  he  came  nearer  to  me.  “In  my  garden 
there  are  roses  and  honeysuckles  of  two  sorts : 
one  sort  was  given  to  me  by  my  father ; they 
grow  as  plentifully  as  weeds;  I have  been  look- 
ing for  them  these  two  days  and  cannot  find 
them.  There  are  flowers  above  there,  yellow, 
blue  and  red,  and  that  centaury  has  a very 
pretty  blossom  ; but  1 can  find  none  of  them.” 
I observed  his  peculiarity,  and  therefore  asked 
him,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  what  he  in- 
tended to  do  with  his  flowers.  A strange 
smile  overspread  his  countenance.  Holding 
his  finger  to  his  mouth,  he  expressed  a hope 
that  I would  not  betray  him,  and  he  then  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  promised  to  gather  a 
nosegay  for  his  mistress.  “That  is  right,” 
said  I.  “Oh,”  he  replied,  “she  possesses 
many  other  things  as  well;  she  is  very  rich.” 
“And  yet,”  I continued,  “she  likes  your  nose- 
gays.” “ Oh,  she  has  jewels  and  crowns  !”  he 
exclaimed.  I asked  who  she  was.  “ If  the 
States-General  would  but  pay  me,”  he  added, 
“ I should  be  quite  another  man.  Alas!  there 
was  a time  when  I was  so  happy,  but  that  is 
past,  and  I am  now — .”  He  raised  his  swim- 
ming eyes  to  heaven.  “And  you  were  happy 
once?”  I observed.  “Ah,  would  I were  so 
still!”  was  his  reply.  “I  was  then  as  gay 
and  contented  as  a man  can  be.”  An  old 
woman,  who  was  coming  towards  us,  now 
called  out,  “ Henry,  Henry!  where  are  you? 
^Ve  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere  : 
come  to  dinner.”  “Is  he  your  son?”  I in- 
quired, as  I went  towards  her.  “Yes,”  she 
said,  “he  is  my  poor,  unfortunate  son.  The 
Lord  has  sent  me  a heavy  afflidtion.”  I asked 
whether  he  had  been  long  in  this  state.  She 


answered,  “ He  has  been  as  calm  as  he  is  at 
present  for  about  six  months.  I thank  Heaven 
that  he  is  so  far  recovered ; he  was  for  one 
whole  year  quite  raving,  and  chained  down 
in  a madhouse.  Now  he  injures  no  one,  but 
talks  of  nothing  else  than  kings  and  queens. 
He  used  to  be  a very  good,  quiet  youth,  and 
helped  to  maintain  me ; he  wrote  a very  fine 
hand  ; but  all  at  once  he  became  melancholy, 
was  seized  with  a violent  fever,  grew  dis- 
tradled,  and  is  now  as  you  see.  If  I were 
only  to  tell  you,  sir — .”  I interrupted  her  by 
asking  what  period  it  was  in  which  he  boasted 
of  having  been  so  happy.  “ Poor  boy  !”  she 
exclaimed,  with  a smile  of  compassion,  “he 
means  the  time  when  he  was  completely  de- 
ranged— a time  he  never  ceases  to  regret — 
when  he  was  in  the  madhouse,  and  unconscious 
of  everything.”  I was  thunderstruck  : I placed 
a piece  of  money  in  her  hand,  and  hastened 
away. 

“You  were  happy!”  I exclaimed,  as  I re- 
turned quickly  to  the  town — “as  gay  and 
contented  as  a man  can  be!”  God  of 
Heaven  ! and  is  this  the  destiny  of  man  ? 
Is  he  only  happy  before  he  has  acquired  his 
reason,  or  after  he  has  lost  it ! Unfortunate 
being  ! and  yet  I envy  your  fate — I envy  the 
delusion  to  which  you  are  a vidlim.  You  go 
forth  with  joy  to  gather  flowers  for  your  prin- 
cess— in  winter — and  grieve  when  you  can 
find  none,  and  cannot  understand  why  they 
do  not  grow.  But  I wander  forth  without 
joy,  without  hope,  without  design,  and  I re- 
turn as  I came.  You  fancy  what  a man  you 
would  be  if  the  States-General  paid  you. 
Happy  mortal,  who  can  ascribe  your  wretch- 
edness to  an  earthly  cause  ! You  do  not  know, 
you  do  not  feel,  that  in  your  own  distradled 
heart,  and  disordered  brain,  dwells  the  source 
of  that  unhappiness,  which  all  the  potentates 
on  earth  cannot  relieve. 

Let  that  man  die  unconsoled  who  can  de- 
ride the  invalid  for  undertaking  a journey  to 
distant  healthful  springs,  where  he  often  finds 
only  a heavier  disease  and  a more  painful 
death,  or  who  can  exult  over  the  despairing 
mind  of  a sinner,  who,  to  obtain  peace  of 
conscience  and  an  alleviation  of  misery,  makes 
a pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre  ! Each 
laborious  step  which  galls  his  wounded  feet  in 
rough  and  untrodden  paths  pours  a drop  of 
balm  into  his  troubled  soul,  and  the  journey 
of  many  a weary  day  brings  a nightly  relief 
to  his  anguished  heart.  Will  you  dare  call 
this  enthusiasm,  ye  crowd  of  pompous  de- 


334 


claimers?  Enthusiasm!  O God!  thou  seest 
my  tears.  Thou  hast  allotted  us  our  portion 
of  misery ; must  we  also  have  brethren  to  per- 
secute us,  to  deprive  us  of  our  consolation,  of 
our  trust  in  thee,  and  in  thy  love  and  mercy? 
For  our  trust  in  the  virtue  of  the  healing  root, 
or  in  the  strength  of  the  vine,  what  is  it  else 
than  a belief  in  thee,  from  whom  all  that  sur- 
rounds us  derives  its  healing  and  restoring 
powers?  Father,  whom  I know  not — who 
wert  once  wont  to  fill  my  soul,  but  who  now 
hidest  thy  face  from  me — call  me  back  to  thee ; 
be  silent  no  longer  ; thy  silence  shall  not  delay 
a soul  which  thirsts  after  thee.  What  man, 
what  father,  could  be  angry  with  a son  for  re- 
turning to  him  suddenly,  for  falling  on  his 
neck,  and  exclaiming,  “ I am  here  again,  my 
father ! forgive  me  if  I have  anticipated  my 
journey,  and  returned  before  the  appointed 
time  ! The  world  is  everywhere  the  same — a 
scene  of  labor  and  of  pain,  of  pleasure  and 
reward ; but  what  does  it  all  avail  ? I am 
happy  only  where  thou  art ; and  in  thy  pres- 
ence am  I content  to  suffer  or  enjoy.”  And 
would’st  thou,  heavenly  Father,  banish  such  a 
child  from  thy  presence  ? 


December  ist. 

Wilhelm,  the  man  about  whom  I wrote  to 
you — that  man  so  enviable  in  his  misfor- 
tunes— was  secretary  to  Charlotte’s  father ; 
and  an  unhappy  passion  for  her  which  he 
cherished,  concealed,  and  at  length  discov- 
ered, caused  him  to  be  dismissed  from  his 
situation.  This  made  him  mad.  Think, 
whilst  you  peruse  this  plain  narration,  what 
an  impression  the  circumstance  has  made  upon 
me.  But  it  was  related  to  me  by  Albert,  with 
as  much  calmness  as  you  will  probably  pe- 
ruse it. 


Dece7nber  4th. 

I implore  your  attention.  It  is  all  over  with 
me.  I can  support  this  state  no  longer  I To- 


day I was  sitting  by  Charlotte.  She  was  play- 
ing upon  her  piano  a succession  of  delightful 
melodies,  with  such  intense  expression  I Her 
little  sister  was  dressing  her  doll  upon  my  lap. 
The  tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I leaned  down 
and  looked  intently  at  her  wedding-ring — my 
tears  fell — immediately  she  began  to  play  that 
favorite,  that  divine  air,  which  has  so  often 
enchanted  me.  I felt  comfort  from  a recol- 
ledlion  of  the  past,  of  those  bygone  days  when 
that  air  was  familiar  to  me,  and  then  I recalled 
all  the  sorrows  and  the  disappointments  which  I 
had  since  endured.  I paced  with  hasty  strides 
j through  the  room  ; my  heart  became  con- 
] vulsed  with  painful  emotions.  At  length  I 
went  up  to  her,  and  with  eagerness  exclaimed, 
“ For  Heaven’s  sake,  play  that  air  no  longer  !” 
She  stopped  and  looked  steadfastly  at  me.  She 
then  said,  with  a smile  which  sunk  deep  into 
my  heart,  “ Werther,  you  are  ill;  your  dear- 
est food  is  distasteful  to  you.  But  go,  I en- 
treat you,  and  endeavor  to  compose  yourself.” 
I tore  myself  away.  God,  thou  seest  my  tor- 
ments, and  wilt  end  them  ! 


Decajiber  6th. 

How  her  image  haunts  me ! Waking  or 
asleep,  she  fills  my  entire  soul  ! Soon  as  I 
close  my  eyes,  here — in  my  brain,  where  all 
the  nerves  of  vision  are  concentrated — ^her 
dark  eyes  are  imprinted.  Here- — I do  not 

know  how  to  describe  it,  but  if  I shut  my 
eyes,  hers  are  immediately  before  me.  Dark 
as  an  abyss,  they  open  upon  me  and  absorb 
my  senses. 

And  what  is  man — that  boasted  demigod  ? 
Do  not  his  powers  fail  when  he  most  requires 
their  use?  And  whether  he  soar  in  joy  or 
sink  in  sorrow,  is  not  his  career  in  both  inevi- 
tably arrested?  And  whilst  he  fondly  dreams 
that  he  is  grasping  at  infinity,  does  he  not  feel 
compelled  to  return  to  a consciousness  of  his 
I cold,  monotonous  existence? 


'■  ciV. 


335 


THE  EDITOR  TO  THE  READER. 


IT  is  a matter  of  extreme  regret  that  we  want 
original  evidence  of  the  last  remarkable 
days  of  our  friend,  and  we  are  therefore 
obliged  to  interrupt  the  progress  of  his  cor- 
respondence, and  to  supply  the  deficiency  by 
a connedled  narration. 

I have  felt  it  my  duty  to  colledt  accurate 
information  from  the  mouths  of  persons  well 
acquainted  with  his  history.  The  story  is 
simple,  and  all  the  accounts  agree,  except  in 
some  unimportant  particulars.  It  is  true  that, 
with  respedt  to  the  characfters  of  the  persons 
spoken  of,  opinions  and  judgments  vary. 

We  have  only  then  to  relate  conscientiously 
the  fadls  which  our  diligent  labor  has  enabled 
us  to  colledt,  to  give  the  letters  of  the  de- 
ceased, and  to  pay  particular  attention  to  the 
slightest  fragment  from  his  pen,  more  es- 
pecially as  it  is  so  difficult  to  discover  the  real 
and  corredl  motives  of  men  who  are  not  of  the 
common  order. 

Sorrow  and  discontent  had  taken  deep  root 
in  Werther’s  soul,  and  gradually  imparted 
their  charadler  to  his  whole  being.  The  har- 
mony of  his  mind  became  completely  dis- 
turbed; a perpetual  excitement  and  mental 
irritation,  which  weakened  his  natural  powers, 
produced  the  saddest  effedts  upon  him,  and 
rendered  him  at  length  the  vidlim  of  an  ex- 
haustion against  which  he  struggled,  with  still 
more  painful  efforts  than  he  had  displayed 
even  in  contending  with  his  other  misfortunes. 
His  mental  anxiety  weakened  his  various  good 
qualities,  and  he  was  soon  converted  into  a 
gloomy  companion — always  unhappy  and  un- 
just in  his  ideas  the  more  wretched  he  became. 
This  was  at  least  the  opinion  of  Albert’s 
friends.  They  assert,  moreover,  that  the 
charadler  of  Albert  himself  had  undergone 
no  change  in  the  meantime ; he  was  still  the 
same  being  whom  Werther  had  loved,  honored 
and  respeAed  from  the  commencement.  His 
love  for  Charlotte  was  unbounded;  he  was 


proud  of  her,  and  desired  that  she  should  be 
recognized  by  every  one  as  the  noblest  of  cre- 
ated beings.  Was  he,  however,  to  blame  for 
wishing  to  avert  from  her  every  appearance 
of  suspicion,  or  for  his  unwillingness  to  share 
his  rich  jmze  with  another,  even  for  a mo- 
ment, and  in  the  most  innocent  manner?  It 
is  asserted  that  Albert  frequently  retired  from 
his  wife’s  apartment  during  Werther’s  visits ; 
but  this  did  not  arise  from  hatred  or  aversion 
to  his  friend,  but  only  from  a feeling  that  his 
presence  was  oppressive  to  Werther. 

Charlotte’s  father,  who  was  confined  to  the 
house  by  indisposition,  was  accustomed  to 
send  his  carriage  for  her,  that  she  might  take 
excursions  in  the  neighborhood.  One  day  the 
weather  had  been  unusually  severe,  and  the 
whole  country  was  covered  with  snow. 

Werther  went  for  Charlotte  the  following 
morning,  in  order  that,  if  Albert  were  absent, 
he  might  condudl  her  home. 

The  beautiful  weather  produced  but  little 
imjjression  upon  his  troubled  spirit.  A heavy 
weight  lay  upon  his  soul ; deep  melancholy 
had  taken  possession  of  him,  and  his  mind 
knew  no  change  save  from  one  painful  thought 
to  another. 

As  he  now  never  enjoyed  internal  peace,  the 
condition  of  his  fellow-creatures  was  to  him  a 
perpetual  source  of  trouble  and  distress.  He 
believed  he  had  interrupted  the  happiness  of 
Albert  and  his  wife;  and  whilst  he  censured 
himself  strongly  for  this,  he  began  to  entertain 
a secret  dislike  to  Albert. 

His  thoughts  were  directed  occasionally  to 
this  point.  “Yes,”  he  would  repeat  to  him- 
self, with  ill-concealed  dissatisfadlion — “yes, 
this  is,  after  all,  the  extent  of  that  confiding, 
dear,  tender  and  sympathetic  love,  that  calm 
and  eternal  fidelity.  What  do  I behold  but 
satiety  and  indifference?  Does  not  every 
frivolous  engagement  attradl  him  more  than 
his  charming  and  lovely  wife?  Does  he  know 


Sorrows  of  Yotnig  U'ert/ier. 


how  to  prize  his  happiness?  Can  he  value  her 
as  she  deserves?  He  possesses  her,  it  is  true; 
I know  that,  as  I know  much  more,  and  I have 
become  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  he  will 
drive  me  mad,  or  perhaps  murder  me.  Is  his 
friendship  towards  me  unimpaired?  Does  he 
not  view  my  attachment  to  Charlotte  as  an 
infringement  upon  his  rights,  and  consider  my 
attention  to  her  as  a silent  rebuke  to  himself? 
I know,  and  indeed  feel,  that  he  dislikes  me — 
that  he  wishes  for  my  absence — that  my  pres- 
ence is  hateful  to  him.” 

He  often  paused  on  his  way  to  visit  Char- 
lotte, stood  doubtingly  still,  and  seemed 
desirous  of  returning,  but  he  nevertheless  pro- 
ceeded ; and,  engaged  in  such  thoughts  and 
soliloquies  as  we  have  described,  he  finally 
reached  the  hunting-lodge  with  a sort  of  in- 
voluntary consent. 

Upon  one  occasion  he  entered  the  house, 
and  inquiring  for  Charlotte  he  observed  that 
the  inmates  were  in  unusual  confusion.  The 
eldest  boy  informed  him  that  a dreadful  mis- 
fortune had  occurred  at  Walheim  — that  a 
peasant  had  been  murdered  ! But  this  made 
little  impression  upon  him.  Entering  the 
apartment,  he  found  Charlotte  engaged  rea- 
soning with  her  father,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
infirmity,  insisted  on  going  to  the  .scene  of  the 
crime  in  order  to  institute  an  inquiry.  The 
criminal  was  unknown — the  vidtim  had  been 
found  dead  at  his  own  door  that  morning. 
Suspicions  were  excited  ; the  murdered  man 
had  been  in  the  service  of  a widow,  and  the 
person  who  had  previously  filled  the  situation 
had  been  dismissed  from  her  employment. 

As  soon  as  Werther  heard  this  he  exclaimed, 
with  great  excitement,  “Is  it  possible!  I 
must  go  to  the  spot — -I  cannot  delay  a mo- 
ment !”  He  hastened  to  Walheim;  every 
incident  returned  vividly  to  his  remembrance, 
and  he  entertained  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  : 
that  man  was  the  murderer  to  whom  he  had 
so  often  spoken,  and  for  whom  he  entertained 
so  much  regard.  His  way  took  him  past  the  j 
well-known  lime  trees,  to  the  house  where  the 
body  had  been  carried,  and  his  feelings  were 
greatly  excited  at  the  sight  of  the  fondly  recol-  i 
ledted  spot.  That  threshold  where  the  neigh-  ' 
bors’  children  had  so  often  played  together 
was  stained  with  blood;  love  and  attachment, 
the  noblest  feelings  of  human  nature,  had  been 
converted  into  violence  and  murder.  'I'he 
liuge  trees  around  were  bare  and  leafless;  the 
beautiful  hedgerows  which  surrounded  the  old 
churchyard-wall  were  withered,  and  the  grave- 


stones, half  covered  with  snow,  were  visible 
through  the  openings. 

As  he  approached  the  little  inn,  near  to 
which  the  whole  village  was  assembled,  there 
^ suddenly  arose  a wild  cry.  A troop  of  armed 
peasants  was  seen  approaching,  and  a general 
1 shout  arose  that  the  criminal  had  been  appre- 
' hended.  Werther  looked,  and  was  not  long 
in  doubt.  The  prisoner  was  no  other  than  the 
I servant  who  had  been  formerly  so  attached  to 
the  widow,  and  whom  he  had  met  prowling 
about,  with  that  suppressed  anger  and  ill- 
concealed  despair  which  we  have  before  de- 
scribed. 

“What  have  you  done,  unfortunate  man?” 
inquired  Werther,  as  he  advanced  towards  the 
prisoner.  The  latter  turned  his  eyes  upon  him 
in  silence,  and  then  replied  with  perfedt  com- 
posure, “No  one  will  now  marry  her,  and  she 
will  marry  no  one.”  The  prisoner  was  se- 
cured in  the  inn,  and  Werther  left  the  place. 

The  mind  of  Werther  was  fearfully  excited 
by  this  shocking  occurrence.  He  ceased,  how- 
ever, to  be  oppressed  by  his  usual  feeling  of 
melancholy,  moroseness  and  indifference  to 
everything  that  passed  around  him.  He  en- 
tertained a strong  degree  of  pity  for  the  pris- 
oner, and  was  seized  with  an  indescribable 
anxiety  to  save  him  from  his  impending  fate. 
He  considered  him  so  unfortunate,  he  deemed 
his  crime  so  excusable,  and  thought  his  own 
condition  so  nearly  similar,  that  he  felt  con- 
vinced he  could  make  every  one  else  view  the 
matter  in  the  light  in  which  he  saw  it  himself. 
He  now  became  anxious  to  undertake  his  de- 
fence, and  commenced  composing  an  eloquent 
speech  for  the  occasion,  and  on  his  way  to 
the  hunting-lodge  he  could  not  refrain  from 
.speaking  aloud  the  statement  which  he  resolved 
to  make  to  the  judge. 

Upon  his  arrival  he  found  Albert  had  been 
before  him,  and  he  was  a little  perplexed  by 
this  meeting;  but  he  soon  recovered  himself, 
and  expressed  his  opinion  with  much  warmth 
to  the  judge.  The  latter  shook  his  head 
doubtingly;  and  although  Werther  urged  his 
case  with  the  utmost  zeal,  feeling  and  deter- 
mination in  defence  of  his  client,  yet,  as  we 
may  easily  suppose,  the  judge  was  not  mucli 
influenced  by  his  appeal.  On  the  contrary, 
he  interrupted  him  in  his  address,  reasoned 
with  him  seriously,  and  even  administered  a 
rebuke  to  him  for  becoming  the  advocate  of  a 
murderer.  He  demonstrated  that,  according 
to  this  precedent,  every  law  might  be  violated, 
and  the  public  security  utterly  destroyed.  He 


337 


added,  moreover,  that  in  such  a case  he  could 
liimself  do  nothing  without  incurring  the 
greatest  responsilulity ; that  everything  must 
follow  in  the  usual  course  and  pursue  the 
ordinary  channel. 

Werther,  however,  did  not  abandon  his 
enterprise,  and  even  besought  the  judge  to 
connive  at  the  flight  of  the  prisoner.  But 
this  proposal  was  peremptorily  rejedted.  Al- 
bert, who  had  taken  some  part  in  the  discus- 
sion, coincided  in  opinion  with  the  judge. 
At  this  Werther  became  enraged,  and  took 
his  leave  in  great  anger,  after  the  judge  had 
more  than  once  assured  him  that  the  prisoner 
could  not  be  saved  ! 

d'he  excess  of  his  grief  at  this  assurance  may 
be  inferred  from  a note  we  have  found  amongst 
his  papers,  and  which  was  doubtless  written 
upon  this  very  occasion. 


“ Unhappy  being  ! you  cannot  be  saved  ! I 
see  clearly  that  we  cannot  be  saved!” 


Werther  was  highly  incensed  at  the  observ'a- 
tions  which  Albert  had  made  to  the  judge  in 
this  matter  of  the  prisoner.  He  thought  he 


could  detedl  therein  a little  bitterness  tow’ards 
himself  personally;  and  although,  upon  re- 
fledlion,  it  could  not  escape  his  sound  judg- 
ment that  their  view  of  the  matter  was  corredl, 
he  felt  the  greatest  possible  reludfance  to 
make  such  an  admission. 

A memorandum  of  Werther’s  upon  this 
point,  expressive  of  his  general  feelings  towards 
Albert,  has  been  found  amongst  his  papers. 


“ What  is  the  use  of  my  continually  repeat- 
ing that  he  is  a good  and  estimable  man  ? 
He  is  an  imvard  torment  to  me — and  I am 
incapable  of  being  just  towards  him.” 


One  fine  evening  in  winter,  when  the  weather 
seemed  inclined  to  thaw,  Charlotte  and  Albert 
were  returning  home  together.  The  former 
looked  from  time  to  time  about  her,  as  if  she 
missed  Werther’s  company.  Albert  began  to 
speak  of  him,  and  censured  him  for  his  preju- 
dices. He  alluded  to  his  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  wished  it  were  possible  to  discon- 
tinue his  acquaintance.  “I  desire  it  on  our 
own  account,”  he  added,  “and  I request  you 
will  compel  him  to  alter  his  dejiortment  towards 


338 


you,  and  to  visit  you  less  frequently.  The 
world  is  censorious,  and  I know  that  here  and 
there  we  are  spoken  of.”  Charlotte  made  no 
reply,  and  Albert  seemed  to  feel  her  silence. 
At  least,  from  that  time,  he  never  again 
spoke  of  Werther,  and  when  she  introduced 
the  subjedt  he  allowed  the  conversation  to  die 
away,  or  else  he  diredted  the  discourse  into 
another  channel. 

The  vain  attempt  which  Werther  had  made 
to  save  the  unhappy  murderer  was  the  last 
feeble  glimmering  of  a flame  about  to  be 
extingui-shed.  He  sank  almost  immediately 
afterwards  into  a state  of  gloom  and  inadlivity, 
until  he  was  at  length  brought  to  perfedt  dis- 
tradlion  by  learning  that  he  was  to  be  sum- 
moned as  a witness  against  the  prisoner,  who 
asserted  his  complete  innocence. 

His  mind  now  became  oppre.ssed  by  the  rec- 
olledtion  of  every  misfortune  of  his  past  life. 
The  mortiflcation  he  had  suffered  at  the  am- 
bassador’s, and  his  subsequent  troubles,  were 
revived  in  his  memory.  He  became  utterly 
inadlive.  Destitute  of  energy,  he  was  cut  off 
from  every  pursuit  and  occupation  which  com- 
pose the  business  of  common  life,  and  he  be- 
came a vidlim  to  his  own  susceptibility,  and 
to  his  restless  passion  for  the  most  amiable 
and  beloved  of  women,  whose  peace  he  de- 
stroyed. In  this  unvarying  monotony  of 
existence  his  days  were  consumed,  and  his 
powers  became  exhausted  without  aim  or  de- 
sign, until  they  brought  him  to  a sorrowful 
end. 

A few  letters  which  he  left  behind,  and 
which  we  here  subjoin,  afford  the  best  proofs 
of  his  anxiety  of  mind  and  of  the  depth  of 
his  passion,  as  well  of  his  doubts  and  struggles 
and  of  his  weariness  of  life. 


December  12th. 

Dear  Wilhelm  ! I am  reduced  to  the  con- 
dition of  those  unfortunate  wretches  who  be- 
lieve they  are  pursued  by  an  evil  spirit.  Some- 
times I am  oppressed— not  by  ajjprehension  or 
fear — but  by  an  inexpressible  internal  sensa- 
tion, which  weighs  upon  my  heart  and  impedes 
my  breath!  Then  I wander  forth  at  night, 
even  in  this  tempestuous  season,  and  feel 
pleasure  in  surveying  the  dreadful  scenes 
around  me. 

Yesterday  evening  I went  forth.  A rapid 
thaw  had  suddenly  set  in;  I had  been  in- 


formed that  the  river  had  risen,  that  the 
brooks  had  all  overflowed  their  banks,  and 
that  the  whole  vale  of  Walheim  was  under 
water!  Upon  the  stroke  of  twelve  I hastened 
forth.  I beheld  a fearful  sight.  The  foaming 
torrents  rolled  from  the  mountains  in  the 
moonlight, — fields  and  meadows,  trees  and 
hedges,  were  confounded  together,  and  the 
entire  valley  was  converted  into  a deep  lake, 
which  was  agitated  by  the  roaring  wind  ! And 
when  the  moon  shone  forth  and  tinged  the 
black  clouds  with  silver,  and  the  impetuous 
torrent  at  my  feet  foamed  and  resounded  with 
awful  and  grand  imj:)etuosity,  I was  overcome 
by  a mingled  sensation  of  apprehension  and 
delight.  With  extended  arms  I looked  down 
into  the  yawning  aby.ss  and  cried,  “Plunge!” 
For  a moment  rny  senses  forsook  me,  in  the 
intense  delight  of  ending  my  sorrows  and  my 
sufferings  by  a plunge  into  that  gulf!  And 
then  I felt  as  if  I were  rooted  to  the  earth, 
and  incapable  of  seeking  an  end  to  my  woes  ! 
But  my  hour  is  not  yet  come;  I feel  it  is  not. 
O Wilhelm,  how  willingly  could  I abandon 
my  existence  to  ride  the  whirlwind  or  to  em- 
brace the  torrent ! and  then  might  not  rapture 
perchance  be  the  portion  of  this  liberated 
soul  ? 

I turned  my  sorrowful  eyes  towards  a favorite 
spot,  where  I was  accustomed  to  sit  with  Char- 
lotte beneath  a willow,  after  a fatiguing  walk. 
Alas ! it  was  covered  with  water,  and  with 
difficulty  I found  even  the  meadow.  And  the 
fields  around  the  hunting-lodge,  thought  I !— 
has  our  dear  bower  been  destroyed  by  this 
unpitying  storm?  And  a beam  of  past  hap- 
piness streamed  upon  me,  as  the  mind  of  a 
captive  is  illumined  by  dreams  of  flocks  and 
herds  and  bygone  joys  of  home!  But  I am 
free  from  blame.  I have  courage  to  die  ! 
Perhaps  I have — but  I still  sit  here,  like  a 
wretched  pauper  who  colledts  fagots  and  begs 
her  bread  from  door  to  door,  that  .she  may 
prolong  for  a few  days  a miserable  existence, 
which  she  is  willing  to  resign. 


December  l^fh. 

What  is  the  matter  with  me,  dear  Wilhelm? 
I am  afraid  of  myself ! Is  not  my  love  for 
her  of  the  purest,  most  holy  and  most  broth- 
erly nature  ? Has  my  soul  ever  been  sullied 
by  a single  sensual  desire — but  I will  make  no 
protestations.  And  now,  ye  nightly  visions. 


339 


Sor/VTi’s  of  Young  IVcrther. 


22K3 


how  truly  have  those  mortals  understood  you,  i 
who  ascribe  your  various  contradictory  effeCts  I 
to  some  invincible  power  ! This  night- — I 
tremble  at  the  avowal — I held  her  in  my  arms, 
locked  in  a close  embrace;  I pressed  her  to 
my  bosom,  and  covered  with  countless  kisses 
those  dear  lips,  which  murmured  in  reply  soft 
protestations  of  love.  My  sight  became  con- 
fused by  the  delicious  into.xication  of  her  eyes_. 
Heavens  ! is  it  sinful  to  revel  again  in  such 
happiness,  to  recall  once  more  those  rapturous 
moments  with  intense  delight?  Charlotte!  - 
Charlotte  I I am  lost  ! My  senses  are  be-  , 
wildered,  my  recollection  is  confused,  mine 
eyes  are  bathed  in  tears — I am  ill,  and  yet  I 
am  well — I wish  for  nothing — I have  no  de- 
sires— it  were  better  I were  gone  I 


Under  the  circumstances  narrated  above,  a 
determination  to  quit  this  world  had  now 
taken  fixed  possession  of  Werther’s  soul. 
Since  Charlotte’s  return,  this  thought  had 
been  the  final  objeCl  of  all  his  hopes  and 
wishes ; but  he  had  resolved  that  such  a step 
should  not  be  taken  with  })recipitation,  but 
with  calmness  and  tranquillity,  and  with  the 
most  perfect  deliberation. 

His  doubts  and  internal  struggles  may  be 
understood  from  the  following  fragment,  which 
wasfound,  without  anydate,  amongst  his  papers, 
and  appears  to  have  formed  the  beginning  of  a 
letter  to  Wilhelm. 


“ Her  presence,  her  fate,  her  sympathy  for 
me,  have  power  still  to  extraCl  tears  from  my 
withered  brain. 

One  lifts  up  the  curtain,  and  passes  to  the 
other  side, — that  is  all  ! And  why  all  these 
doubts  and  delays?  Because  we  know  not 
what  is  behind — because  there  is  no  return- 
ing— and  because  our  mind  infers  that  all  is 
darkness  and  confusion  where  we  have  noth- 
ing but  uncertainty.” 


His  appearance  at  length  became  quite  al- 
tered by  the  effeCt  of  his  melancholy  thoughts, 
and  his  resolution  was  now  finally  and  irre- 
vocably taken,  of  which  the  following  am-  j 
biguous  letter,  which  he  addressed  to  his  I 
friend,  may  ajtpear  to  afford  some  proof.  | 


December  20lh. 

I am  grateful  to  your  love,  Wilhelm,  for 
having  repeated  your  advice  so  seasonably. 
Yes,  you  are  right ; it  is  undoubtedly  better 
that  I should  depart  ! But  I do  not  entirely 
approve  your  scheme  of  returning  at  once  to 
your  neighborhood  ; at  least,  I should  like  to 
make  a little  excursion  on  the  way,  particu- 
larly as  we  may  now  expeCt  a continued  frost, 
and  consequently  good  roads.  I am  much 
pleased  with  your  intention  of  coming  to 
fetch  me,  only  delay  )our  journey  for  a fort- 
night, and  wait  for  another  letter  from  me. 
One  should  gather  nothing  before  it  is  ripe, 
and  a fortnight  sooner  or  later  makes  a great 
difference.  Entreat  my  mother  to  pray  for 
her  son,  and  tell  her  I beg  her  pardon  for  all 
the  unhappiness  I have  occasioned  her.  It 
has  ever  been  ni)'  fate  to  give  pain  to  those 
whose  hajqriness  I should  have  jwomoted. 
Adieu,  my  dearest  friend  ! May  every  bless- 
ing of  Heaven  attend  you  ! Farewell. 


We  find  it  difficult  to  express  the  emotions 
with  which  Charlotte’s  soul  was  agitated  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  this  time,  whether  in  relation 
to  her  husband  or  to  her  unfortunate  friend, 
although  we  are  enabled,  by  our  knowledge 
of  her  charadler,  to  understand  their  nature. 

It  is  certain  that  she  had  formed  a determi- 
nation, by  every  means  in  her  power,  to  keep 
Werther  at  a distance ; and  if  she  hesitated 
in  her  decision,  it  was  from  a sincere  feeling 
of  friendly  pity,  knowing  how  much  it  would 
cost  him — indeed,  that  he  would  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  comjjly  with  her  wishes.  But 
various  causes  now  urged  her  to  be  firm.  Her 
husband  preserved  a strift  silence  about  the 
whole  matter,  and  she  never  made  it  a subjedl 
of  conversation,  feeling  bound  to  prove  to 
him  by  her  condudt  that  her  sentiments  agreed 
with  his. 

The  same  day,  which  was  the  Sunday  before 
Christmas,  after  Werther  had  written  the  last- 
mentioned  letter  to  his  friend,  he  came  in  the 
evening  to  Charlotte’s  house,  and  found  her 
alone.  She  was  busy  jjreparing  some  little 
gifts  for  her  brothers  and  sisters,  which  were 
to  be  distributed  to  them  on  Christmas  day. 
He  began  talking  of  the  delight  of  the  chil- 
dren, and  of  that  age  when  the  sudden  ap- 
pearance of  the  Christmas  tree,  decorated  with 
fruit  and  sweetmeats,  and  lighted  up  with  wax 


340 


candles,  causes  such  transports  of  joy.  “You 
shall  have  a gift,  too,  if  you  behave  well,” 
said  Charlotte,  hiding  her  embarrassment 
under  a sweet  smile.  “And  what  do  you  j 
call  behaving  well?  What  should  I do — 
what  can  I do,  my  dear  Charlotte,”  said  he. 
“Thursday  night,”  she  answered,  “is  Christ- 
mas eve  ; the  children  are  all  to  be  here,  and 
my  father,  too  : there  is  a present  for  each  ; — | 
do  you  come  likewise,  but  do  not  come  before  ' 
that  time.”  Werther  started.  “ I desire  you 
will  not — it  must  be  so,”  she  continued.  “ I 
ask  it  of  you  as  a favor — for  my  own  peace  I 
and  tranquillity.  We  cannot  go  on  in  this  j 
manner  any  longer.”  He  turned  away  his 
face,  walked  hastily  up  and  down  the  room, 
muttering  indistinHly,  “ We  cannot  go  on  in 
this  manner  any  longer!”  Charlotte,  seeing  | 
the  violent  agitation  into  which  these  words 
had  thrown  him,  endeavored  to  divert  his 
thoughts  by  different  questions,  but  in  vain. 
“No,  Charlotte!”  he  exclaimed:  “I  will 
never  see  you  anymore.”  “And  why  so?” 
she  answered;  “we  may — we  must  see  each 
other  again,  only  let  it  be  with  more  discre-  | 
tion.  Oh,  why  were  you  born  with  that  ex- 
cessive, that  ungovernable  passion  for  every-' 
thing  that  is  dear  to  you?”  Then,  taking  his 
hand,  she  said,  “ I entreat  of  you  to  be  more  1 
calm  ; your  talents,  your  understanding,  your 
genius,  will  furnish  you  with  a thousand  re- 
sources. Be  a man,  and  conquer  an  unhappy 
attachment  towards  a creature  who  can  do 
nothing  but  pity  you.”  He  bit  his  lips,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a gloomy  countenance. 
She  continued  to  hold  his  hand.  “ Grant  me 
but  a moment’s  patience,  Werther,”  she  said; 

“ do  you  not  .see  that  you  are  deceiving  your- 
self,— that  you  are  seeking  your  own  destruc- 
tion ? Why  must  you  love  me — me  only,  who  | 
belong  to  another  ? I fear,  I much  fear,  that  j 
it  is  only  the  impossibility  of  possessing  me 
which  makes  your  desire  for  me  so  strong.”  1 
He  drew  back  his  hand,  whilst  he  surveyed 
her  with  a wild  and  angry  look.  “ ’Tis  well,”  j 
he  exclaimed,  “ ’tis  very  well;  did  not  .Albert  ^ 
furnish  you  with  this  refledtion  ? — it  is  pro- 
found, a very  profound  remark.”  “A  re-  | 
fledtion  that  any  one  might  easily  make,”  she 
answered  ; “and  is  there  not  a woman  in  the  I 
whole  world  who  is  at  liberty  and  has  the 
power  to  make  you  happy?  Conquer  your- 
self; look  for  such  a being,  and  believe  me 
when  I say  that  you  will  certainly  find  her. 

I have  long  felt  for  you,  and  for  us  all  ; you 
have  confined  yourself  too  long  within  the 


limits  of  too  narrow  a circle.  Conquer  your- 
self; make  an  effort;  a short  journey  will  be 
of  service  to  you.  Seek  and  find  an  objedl 
worthy  of  your  love ; then  return  hither,  and 
let  us  enjoy  together  all  the  happiness  of  the 
most  perfeH  friendship.” 

“This  speech,”  replied  Werther,  with  a 
cold  smile — “ this  speech  should  be  printed 
for  the  benefit  of  all  teachers.  My  dear  Char- 
lotte, allow  me  but  a short  time  longer,  and 
all  will  be  well.”  “But,  however,  Werther,” 
she  added,  “do  not  come  again  before  Christ- 
mas.” He  was  about  to  make  some  answer, 
when  Albert  came  in.  They  saluted  each 
other  coldly,  and  with  mutual  embarrassment 
paced  up  and  down  the  room.  Werther  made 
some  common  remarks  ; Albert  did  the  same  ; 
and  their  conversation  soon  dropped.  Albert 
asked  h*ts  wife  about  some  household  matters, 
and  finding  that  his  commissions  were  not 
executed  he  used  some  e.xpressions  which,  to 
Werther’ s ear,  savored  of  extreme  harshness. 
He  wished  to  go,  but  had  not  power  to  move ; 
and  in  this  situation  he  remained  till  eight 
o’clock,  his  uneasiness  and  discontent  con- 
tinually increasing.  At  length  the  cloth  was 
laid  for  supper,  and  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
stick.  Albert  invited  him  to  remain,  but 
Werther,  fancying  that  he  was  merely  paying 
a formal  compliment,  thanked  him  coldly,  and 
left  the  house. 

Werther  returned  home,  took  the  candle 
from  his.  servant,  and  retired  to  his  room 
alone.  He  talked  for  some  time  with  great 
earnestness  to  himself,  wept  aloud,  walked  in 
a state  of  great  excitement  through  his  cham- 
ber, till  at  length,  without  undressing,  he 
threw  himself  on  the  bed,  where  he  was  found 
by  his  servant  at  eleven  o’clock,  when  the 
latter  ventured  to  enter  the  room  and  take  off 
his  boots.  Werther  did  not  prevent  him,  but 
forbade  him  to  come  in  the  morning  till  he 
should  ring. 

On  Monday  morning,  the  21st  of  Decem- 
ber, he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Charlotte, 
which  was  found,  sealed,  on  his  bureau  after 
his  death,  and  was  given  to  her.  I shall  in- 
sert it  in  fragments,  as  it  appears,  from  several 
circumstances,  to  have  been  written  in  that 
manner. 


“It  is  all  over,  Charlotte;  I am  resolved  to 
die  ! I make  this  declaration  deliberately  and 
coolly,  without  any  romantic  passion,  on  this 
morning  of  the  day  when  I am  to  see  you  for 


341 


the  last  time.  At  the  moment  you  read  these 
lines,  O best  of  women  ! the  cold  gi'ave  will 
hold  the  inanimate  remains  of  that  restless  and 
unhappy  being  who,  in  the  last  moments  of 
his  existence,  knew  no  pleasure  so  great  as  that 
of  conversing  with  you.  I have  passed  a 
dreadful  night,  or  rather  let  me  say,  a propi- 
tious one,  for  it  has  given  me  resolution — it 
has  fixed  my  ])urpose.  I am  resolved  to  die. 
When  I tore  myself  from  }ou  yesterday,  my 
senses  were  in  tumult  and  disorder;  my  heart 
was  oj)pressed,  ho]te  and  jfieasure  had  fled 
from  me  forever,  and  a petrifying  cold  had 
seized  my  wretched  being.  I could  scarcely 
reach  my  room.  I threw  myself  on  my  knees, 
and  Heaven,  for  the  last  time,  granted  me  the 
consolation  of  shedding  tears.  A thousand 


ideas,  a thousand  schemes  arose  within  my 
soul ; till  at  length  one  last,  fixed,  final  thought 
took  ])ossession  of  my  heart.  It  was  to  die. 
I lay  down  to  rest,  and  in  the  morning — in 
the  quiet  hour  of  awakening,  the  same  deter- 
mination was  upon  me.  To  die  ! It  is  not 
desj)air — it  is  convidlion  that  I have  filled  up 
the  . measure  of  my  sufferings — that  I have 
reached  my  ajrpointed  term,  and  that  I must 
sacrifice  myself  for  thee.  Yes,  Charlotte, 
why  should  I not  avow  it?  One  of  us  three 
must  die — it  shall  be  Werther.  O beloved 
Charlotte!  this  heart,  excited  by  rage  and 
fury,  has  often  conceived  the  horrid  idea  of 
murdering  your  husband — t on — myself.  The 
lot  at  length  is  cast ! And  in  the  bright, 
cjuiet  evenings  of  summer,  when  you  some- 


I 


342 


times  wander  towards  the  mountains,  let  \'our 
thoughts  then  turn  to  me ; recolledt  how  often 
you  have  watched  me  coming  to  meet  you 
from  the  valley — then  bend  your  eyes  upon 
the  churchyard,  which  contains  my  grave,  and 
by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  mark  how  the 
evening  breeze  waves  the  tall  grass  which 
grows  above  my  tomb.  I was  calm  when  I 
began  this  letter,  but  the  recolledlion  of  these 
scenes  makes  me  weep  like  a child.” 


About  ten  in  the  morning  Werther  called 
his  servant,  and,  whilst  he  was  dressing,  told 
him  that  in  a few  days  he  intended  to  set  out 
upon  a journey',  and  bade  him  therefore  lay 
his  clothes  in  order,  and  prepare  them  for 
packing  up,  call  in  all  his  accounts,  fetch 
home  the  books  he  had  lent,  and  give  two 
months’  pay  to  the  poor  dependents  who  were 
accustomed  to  receive  from  him  a weekly 
allowance. 

He  breakfasted  in  his  room,  and  then 
mounted  his  horse,  and  went  to  visit  the 
steward,  who  however  was  not  at  home.  He 
walked  pensively  in  the  garden,  and  seemed 
anxious  to  renew  all  the  ideas  that  were  most 
painful  to  him. 

The  children  did  not  suffer  him  to  remain 
long  alone.  They  followed  him,  skipping 
and  dancing  before  him,  and  told  him  that 
after  to-morrow — and  to-morrow — and  one 
day  more,  they  were  to  receive  their  Christmas 
gift  from  Charlotte ; and  they  then  recounted 
all  the  wonders  of  which  they  had  formed 
ideas  in  their  little  imaginations.  “To-mor- 
row— and  to-morrow,”  said  he — “and  one 
day  more!” — and  he  kissed  them  tenderly. 
He  was  going — but  the  younger  boy  stopped 
him  to  whisper  something  in  his  ear.  He 
told  him  that  his  elder  brothers  had  written 
splendid  New-Year’s  wishes — so  large  ! — one 
for  papa,  and  another  for  Albert  and  Char- 
lotte, and  one  for  Werther,  and  they  were  to 
be  presented  early  in  the  morning  on  New- 
Year’s  day.  This  quite  overcame  him;  he 
made  each  of  the  children  a present,  mounted 
his  horse,  left  his  compliments  for  papa  and 
mamma,  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  rode 
away  from  the  place. 

He  returned  home  about  five  o’clock, 
ordered  his  servant  to  keep  uj)  his  fire,  de- 
sired him  to  pack  his  books  and  linen  at  the 
bottom  of  the  trunk,  and  to  place  his  coats  at 


the  top.  He  then  appears  to  have  made  the 
following  addition  to  his  letter  to  Charlotte. 


“You  do  not  expedt  me.  You  think  I will 
obey  you,  and  not  visit  you  again  till  Christ- 
mas eve.  O Charlotte,  to-day  or  never  ! On 
Christmas  eve  you  will  hold  this  paper  in  your 
hand;  you  will  tremble,  and  moisten  it  with 
your  tears.  I will — I must  ! Oh,  how  happy 
I feel  to  be  determined  !” 

In  the  meantime  Charlotte  was  in  a pitiable 
state  of  mind.  After  her  last  conversation 
with  Werther  she  found  how  jiainful  it  would 
be  to  herself  to  decline  his  visits,  and  knew 
how  severely  he  would  suffer  from  their  sepa- 
ration. 

She  had  mentioned  casually,  in  conversation 
with  Albert,  that  Werther  would  not  return 
before  Christmas  eve;  and  soon  afterwards 
Albert  rode  over  to  a person  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, with  whom  he  had  some  business  to 
transadl,  which  would  detain  him  from  home 
all  night. 

Charlotte  was  sitting  alone.  None  of  her 
family  were  near,  and  she  abandoned  herself 
to  the  refledtions  which  silently  took  possession 
of  her  mind.  She  was  eternally  united  to  a 
husband  whose  love  and  fidelity  she  had 
proved,  to  whom  she  was  heartily  devoted, 
and  who  seemed  to  be  a special  gift  from 
Heaven  to  insure  her  happiness.  On  the 
other  hand,  Werther  had  become  dear  to  her; 
from  the  very  first  hour  of  their  acquaintance 
there  was  a cordial  unanimity  of  sentiment 
between  them,  and  their  long  association  and 
repeated  interviews  had  made  an  indelible  im- 
pression upon  her  heart.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  communicate  to  him  every  thought 
and  feeling  which  interested  her,  and  his  ab- 
sence threatened  to  open  a void  in  her  exist- 
ence which  it  might  be  impossible  to  fill. 
How  heartily  she  wished  that  she  might  con- 
vert him  into  a brother — that  she  could  induce 
him  to  marry  one  of  her  own  friends — or  that 
she  could  re-establish  his  intimacy  with  .\lbert. 

She  ])assed  all  her  intimate  friends  in  review 
before  her  mind,  but  found  something  objec- 
tionable in  each,  and  could  decide  u])on  none 
to  whom  she  would  consent  to  give  him. 

Amid  all  these  considerations  she  felt  deeply 
but  indistinctly  that  her  own  real  but  unex- 
pressed wish  was  to  retain  him  for  herself ; 
and  her  pure  and  amiable  heart  felt  from  this 
thought  a sense  of  oppression  which  seemed 


3-13 


to  forbid  a prospedl  of  happiness.  She  was 
wretched — a dark  cloud  obscured  lier  mental 
vision. 

It  was  now  half-past  six  o’clock,  and  she 
heard  Werther’s  step  upon  the  stairs ; she  im- 
mediately recognized  his  voice,  inquiring  if 
she  was  at  home.  Her  heart  beat  audibly — 
we  could  almost  say  for  the  first  time — at  his 
arrival.  It  was  too  late  to  deny  herself,  and, 
as  he  entered,  she  exclaimed,  with  a sort  of 
ill-concealed  confusion,  “ You  have  not  kept 
your  word.”  “I  did  not  promise  anything,” 


“Have  you  brought  nothing  to  read?”  she 
inquired.  He  had  nothing.  “There  in  my 
drawer,”  she  continued,  “you  will  find  your 
own  translation  of  some  of  the  songs  of 
Ossian.  I have  not  yet  read  them,  as  I have 
still  hoped  to  hear  you  recite  them;  but  for 
some  time  past  I have  not  been  able  to  accom- 
plish such  a wish.”  He  smiled,  and  went  to 
fetch  the  manuscript,  and  with  a shudder  he 
took  it  tip.  He  .sat  down,  and  with  eyes 
swimming  in  tears  he  began  to  read. 

“Star  of  descending  night!  fair  is  thy 


he  answered.  “But  you  should  have  com- 
plied at  least  for  my  sake,”  she  continued. 
“ I implore  it  of  you,  for  both  our  sakes.” 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  said  or  what 
she  did,  and  sent  for  some  one  of  her  female 
friends,  that  she  might  not  be  left  alone  with 
Werther.  He  placed  some  books  down,  which 
he  had  brought  with  him,  then  made  inquiries 
about  some  others,  until  she  began  to  hope 
that  her  friends  might  shortly  arrive,  enter- 
taining at  the  same  time  a desire  that  they 
might  remain  away. 

At  one  moment  she  felt  anxious  that  the 
servant  should  remain  in  the  adjoining  room, 
then  she  wished  differently.  Werther  mean- 
while walked  impatiently  backwards  and  for- 
wards. She  went  to  the  piano,  and  determined 
not  to  retire.  She  then  collefted  her  thoughts 
and  sat  down  quietly  at  Werther’s  side,  who 
had  taken  his  usual  place  upon  the  sofa. 


light  in  the  west  I thou  liftest  thy  unshorn 
head  from  thy  cloud  ; thy  steps  are  stately  on 
thy  hill.  What  dost  thou  behold  in  the  plain? 
The  stormy  winds  are  laid.  The  murmur  of 
the  torrent  comes  from  afar.  Roaring  waves 
climb  the  distant  rock.  The  flies  of  evening 
are  on  their  feeble  wings  ; the  hum  of  their 
course  is  on  the  field.  What  dost  thou  be- 
hold, fair  light?  But  thou  dost  smile  and 
dei)art.  The  waves  come  with  joy  around 
thee : they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair.  Farewell, 
thou  silent  beam  ! Let  the  light  of  Ossian’s 
soul  arise. 

“And  it  does  arise  in  its  strength.  I behold 
my  departing  friends.  Their  gathering  is  on 
Lora,  as  in  the  days  of  other  years.  Fingal 
comes  like  a watery  column  of  mist : his 
heroes  are  around ; and  see  the  bards  of  song, 
gray -haired  Ullin  ! stately  Rhyno ! Alpin 
with  the  tuneful  voice  ! the  soft  complaint  of 


344 


Minona ! How  are  ye  changed,  my  friends, 
since  the  days  of  Selma’s  feast  ! when  we 
contended  like  gales  of  Spring  as  they  fly 
along  the  hill,  and  bend  by  turns  the  feebly- 
whistling  grass. 

“Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty  with 
downcast  look  and  tearful  eye.  Her  hair 
flew  slowly  on  the  blast  that  rushed  unfre- 
quent from  the  hill.  The  souls  of  the  heroes 
were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tuneful  voice. 
Oft  had  she  seen  the  grave  of  Salgar,  the  dark 
dwelling  of  white-bosomed  Colma.  Colma 
left  alone  on  the  hill  with  all  her  voice  of 
song ! Salgar  promised  to  come ; but  the 
night  descended  around.  Hear  the  voice  of 
Colma  when  she  sat  alone  on  the  hill ! 

Colma. 

“It  is  night;  I am  alone,  forlorn  on  the 
hill  of  storms.  The  wind  is  heard  on  the 
mountain.  The  torrent  pours  down  from  the 
rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from  the  rain  : 
forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds ! 

“Rise,  moon,  from  behind  thy  clouds! 
Stars  of  the  night,  arise  ! Lead  me,  some 
light,  to  the  place  where  my  love  rests  from 
the  chase  alone!  His  bow  near  him  unstrung, 
his  dogs  panting  around  him ! But  here  I must 
sit  alone  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream. 
The  stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I hear 
not  the  voice  of  my  love  ! Why  delays  my 
Salgar;  why  the  chief  of  the  hill  his  promise? 
Here  is  the  rock  and  here  the  tree!  here  is 
the  roaring  stream  ! d'hou  didst  promise  with 
night  to  be  here.  Ah  ! whither  is  my  Salgar 
gone?  With  thee  I would  fly  from  my  father, 
with  thee  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our 
race  have  long  been  foes : we  are  not  foes,  O 
Salgar  ! 

“Cease  a little  while,  O wind!  stream,  be 
thou  silent  awhile ! let  my  voice  be  heard 
around  ! let  my  wanderer  hear  me  ! Salgar  ! 
it  is  Colma  who  calls.  Here  is  the  tree  and 
the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love,  I am  here  ! Why 
delayest  thou  thy  coming  ? Lo  ! the  calm 
moon  comes  forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in 
the  vale.  The  rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep. 

I see  him  not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come 
not  before  him  with  tidings  of  his  near  ap- 
proach. Here  I must  sit  alone  ! 

“Who  lie  on  the  beach  beside  me?  Are 
they  my  love  and  my  brother  ? S])eak  to  me, 
O my  friends.  To  Colma  they  give  no  reply. 
Speak  to  me ; I am  alone  ! My  soul  is  tor- 
mented with  fears.  Ah,  they  are  dead  ! 


Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  O my 
brother ! my  brother  ! why  hast  thou  slain  my 
Salgar?  Why,  O Salgar!  hast  thou  slain  my 
brother?  Dear  were  ye  both  to  me!  what 
shall  I say  in  your  praise  ? Thou  wert  fair  on 
the  hill.  Among  thousands  he  was  terrible  in 
fight ! Speak  to  me  ! hear  my  voice  ! hear 
me,  sons  of  my  love  ! They  are  silent  ! silent 
forever ! Cold,  cold,  are  their  breasts  of 
clay.  Oh,  from  the  rock  on  the  hill,  from 
the  top  of  the  windy  steep,  speak,  ye  ghosts 
of  the  dead  ! Speak,  I will  not  be  afraid  ! 
Whither  are  ye  gone  to  rest  ? In  what  cave 
of  the  hill  shall  I find  the  departed  ? No 
feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale : no  answer  half 
drowned  in  the  storm  ! 

“I  sit  in  my  grief:  I wait  for  morning  in 
my  tears  ! Rear  the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the 
dead.  Close  it  not  till  Colma  come.  My 
life  flies  away  like  a dream.  "Why  should  I 
stay  behind  ? Here  shall  I rest  with  my 
friend,  by  the  streams  of  the  sounding  rock. 
When  night  comes  on  the  hill — when  the  loud 
winds  arise,  my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast, 
and  mourn  the  death  of  friends.  The  hunter 
shall  hear  from  his  booth  ; he  shall  hear,  but 
love  my  voice  ! For  sweet  shall  my  voice  be 
for  my  friends : pleasant  were  her  friends  to 
Colma. 

“ Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly-blush- 
ing daughter  of  Torman.  Our  tears  descended 
for  Colma,  and  our  souls  were  sad  ! Ullin 
I came  with  his  harp ; he  gave  the  song  of 
Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was  pleasant,  the 
soul  of  Rhyno  was  a beam  of  fire  ! But  they 
j had  rested  in  the  narrow  house ; their  voice 
i had  ceased  in  Salma ! LTlin  had  returned 
one  day  from  the  chase  before  the  heroes  fell. 
He  heard  their  strife  on  the  hill : their  song 
was  soft,  but  sad  ! They  mourned  the  fall  of 
Morar,  first  of  mortal  men  ! His  soul  was 
like  the  soul  of  Fingal  : his  sword  like  the 
sword  of  Oscar.  But  he  fell,  and  his  father 
mourned  : his  sister’s  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

! Mmona’s  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  the  sister  of 
car-borne  Morar.  She  retired  from  the  song 
of  Ullin,  like  the  moon  in  the  west,  when  she 
foresees  the  shower  and  hides  her  fair  head  in 
a cloud.  I touched  the  harp  with  Ullin  ; the 
song  of  mourning  rose  ! 

Rhyno. 

“The  winds  and  the  rain  are  past,  calm  is 
the  noon  of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in 
heaven.  Over  the  green  hills  flies  the  incon- 


345 


Sorrows  of  Young  IVerther. 


stant  sun.  Red  through  the  stony  vale  comes 
down  the  stream  of  the  hill.  Sweet  are  thy 
murmurs,  O stream ! but  more  sweet  is  the 
voice  I hear.  It  is  the  voice  of  Al]hn,  the 
son  of  song,  mourning  for  the  dead  ! Bent 
is  his  head  of  age:  red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpin, 
thou  son  of  song,  why  alone  on  the  silent  hill? 
why  complainest  thou,  as  a blast  in  the  wood — 
as  a wave  on  the  lonely  shore  ? 

Alpin. 

“ My  tears,  O Rhyno  1 are  for  the  dead — 
my  voice  for  those  that  have  passed  away. 
Tall  thou  art  on  the  hill ; fair  among  the  sons 
of  the  vale.  But  thou  shalt  fall  like  Morar : 
the  mourner  shall  sit  on  thy  tomb.  The  hills 
shall  know  thee  no  more : thy  bow  shall  lie  in 
thy  hall  unstrung  ! 

“ 'I'hou  wert  swift,  O Morar  ! as  a roe  on 
the  desert : terrible  as  a meteor  of  fire.  Thy 
wrath  was  as  the  storm.  Thy  sword  in  battle 
as  lightning  in  the  field.  Thy  voice  was  a 
stream  after  rain,  like  thunder  on  distant  hills. 
Many  fell  by  thy  arm  : they  were  consumed 
in  the  flames  of  thy  wrath.  But  when  thou 
didst  return  from  war,  how  peaceful  was  thy 
brow.  Thy  face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain  : 
like  the  moon  in  the  silence  of  night : calm 
as  the  breast  of  the  lake  when  the  loud  wind 
is  laid. 

“Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now!  dark  the 
place  of  thine  abode ! With  three  steps  I 
compass  thy  grave,  O thou  who  wast  so  great 
before ! Four  stones,  with  their  heads  of 
moss,  are  the  only  memorial  of  thee.  A tree 
with  scarce  a leaf,  long  grass  which  whistles 
in  the  wind,  mark,  to  the  hunter’s  eye,  the 
grave  of  the  mighty  Morar.  Morar  ! thou  art 
low  indeed.  Thou  hast  no  mother  to  mourn 
thee,  no  maid  with  her  tears  of  love.  Dead 
is  she  that  brought  thee  forth.  Fallen  is  the 
daughter  of  Morglan. 

“Who  on  his  staff  is  this?  Who  is  this 
whose  head  is  white  with  age,  whose  eyes  are 
red  with  tears,  who  quakes  at  every  step?  It 
is  thy  father,  O Morar  ! the  father  of  no  son 
but  thee.  He  heard  of  thy  fame  in  war,  he 
heard  of  foes  dispersed.  He  heard  of  Morar’s 
renown,  why  did  he  not  hear  of  his  wound? 
^^’eep,  thou  father  of  Morar  ! Weep,  but  thy 
son  heareth  thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the 
dead, — low  their  pillow  of  dust.  No  more 
shall  he  hear  thy  voice — no  more  awake  at 
thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  grave, 
to  bid  the  slumberer  awake  ? Farewell,  thou 


bravest  of  men  I thou  conqueror  in  the  field  1 
but  the  field  shall  see  thee  no  more,  nor  the 
dark  wood  be  lightened  with  the  splendor  of 
thy  steel.  Thou  hast  left  no  son.  The  song 
shall  preserve  thy  name.  Future  times  shall 
hear  of  thee — they  shall  hear  of  the  fallen 
Morar ! 

“ The  grief  of  all  arose,  but  most  the  burst- 
ing sigh  of  Annin.  He  remembers  the  death 
of  his  son,  who  fell  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 
Carmor  was  near  the  hero,  the  chief  of  the 
echoing  Galmol.  Why  bursts  the  sigh  of 
Annin?  he  said.  Is  there  a cause  to  mourn? 
The  song  comes  with  its  music  to  melt  and 
please  the  soul.  It  is  like  soft  mist  that,  rising 
from  a lake,  pours  on  the  silent  vale;  the  green 
flowers  are  filled  with  dew,  but  the  sun  returns 
in  his  strength,  and  the  mist  is  gone.  Why 
art  thou  sad,  O Annin,  chief  of  sea-surrounded 
Gonna? 

“ Sad  I am  ! nor  small  is  my  cause  of  woe  ! 
Carmor,  thou  hast  lost  no  son  ; thou  hast  lost 
no  daughter  of  beauty.  Colgar  the  valiant 
lives,  and  Annira,  fairest  maid.  The  boughs 
of  thy  house  ascend,  O Connar  I but  Annin 
is  the  last  of  his  race.  Dark  is  thy  bed,  O 
Daura  ! deep  thy  sleep  in  the  tomb  ! Wlien 
shalt  thou  wake  with  thy  songs? — with  all  thy 
voice  of  music  ? 

“Arise,  winds  of  Autumn,  arise:  blow 
along  the  heath.  Streams  of  the  mountains, 
roar ; roar,  tempests  in  the  groves  of  my  oaks  I 
\^'alk  through  broken  clouds,  O moon  ! show 
thy  pale  face  at  intervals ; bring  to  my  mind 
the  night  when  all  my  children  fell,  when 
Arindal  the  mighty  fell  — when  Daura  the 
lovely  failed.  Daura,  my  daughter,  thou  wert 
fair,  fair  as  the  moon  on  Fura,  white  as  the 
driven  snow,  sweet  as  the  breathing  gale. 
Arindal,  thy  bow  was  strong,  thy  spear  w'as 
swift  in  the  field,  thy  look  was  like  mist  on 
the  wave,  thy  shield  a red  cloud  in  a storm  ! 
Armar,  renowned  in  war,  came  and  sought 
Daura’ s love.  He  was  not  long  refused  ; fair 
was  the  hope  of  their  friends. 

“ Erath,  son  of  Odgal,  repined:  his  brother 
had  been  slain  by  Armar.  He  came  disguised 
like  a son  of  the  sea : fair  was  his  cliff  on  the 
wave,  white  his  locks  of  age,  calm  his  serious 
brown  Fairest  of  w'omen,  he  said,  lovely 
daughter  of  Armin  I a rock  not  distant  in  the 
sea  bears  a tree  on  its  side:  red  shines  the 
fruit  afar.  There  Armar  w'aits  for  Daura.  I 
come  to  carry  his  love  ! she  went — she  called 
on  Armar.  Nought  answered  but  the  son  of 
the  rock.  Armar,  my  love,  my  love  ! why 


346 


CHARLOTTE  AND  WERT  HER. 


tormentest  thou  me  with  fear?  Hear,  son  of 
Armar,  hear  ! it  is  Daura  who  calleth  thee. 
Erath,  the  traitor,  fled  laughing  to  the  land. 
She  lifted  up  her  voice — she  called  for  her 
brother  and  her  father.  Arindal ! Armin  ! 
none  to  relieve  you,  Daura. 

“ Her  voice  came  over  the  sea.  Arindal, 
my  son,  descended  from  the  hill,  rough  in  the 
spoils  of  the  chase.  His  arrows  rattled  by 
his  side  ; his  bow  was  in  his  hand,  five  dark- 
gray  dogs  attended  his  steps.  He  saw  fierce 
Erath  on  the  shore ; he  seized  and  bound  him 
to  an  oak.  Thick  wind  the  thongs  of  the  hide 
around  his  limbs ; he  loads  the  wind  with  his 
groans.  Arindal  ascends  the  deep  in  his  boat 
to  bring  Daura  to  land.  Armar  came  in  his 
wrath,  and  let  fly  the  gray-feathered  shaft.  It 
sung,  it  sunk  in  thy  heart,  O ,\rindal,  my  son  ! 
for  Erath  the  traitor  thou  diest.  The  oar  is 
stopped  at  once  : he  panted  on  the  rock,  and 
expired.  What  is  thy  grief,  O Daura,  when 
round  thy  feet  is  poured  thy  brother’s  blood, 
'fhe  boat  is  broken  in  twain.  Armar  plunges 
into  the  sea  to  rescue  his  Daura,  or  die. 
Sudden  a blast  from  the  hill  came  over  the 
waves ; he  sank,  and  he  rose  no  more. 

“Alone  on  the  sea-beat  rock,  my  daughter 
was  heard  to  complain  ; frequent  and  loud 
were  her  cries.  What  could  her  father  do  ? 
All  night  I stood  on  the  shore  : I saw  her  by 
the  faint  beam  of  the  moon.  All  night  I 
heard  her  cries.  Loud  was  the  wind ; the 
rain  beat  hard  on  the  hill.  Before  morning 
appeared  her  voice  was  weak  ; it  died  away 
like  the  evening  breeze  among  the  grass  of 
the  rocks.  Spent  with  grief,  she  expired,  and 
left  thee,  Armin,  alone.  Gone  is  my  strength 
in  war,  fallen  my  pride  among  women.  When 
the  storms  aloft  arise,  when  the  north  lifts  the 
wave  on  high,  I sit  by  the  sounding  .shore,  and 
look  on  the  fatal  rock. 

“ Often  by  the  sitting  moon  I see  the  ghosts 
of  my  children;  half  viewless  they  walk  in 
mournful  conference  together.’’ 

torrent  of  tears  which  streamed  from 
Charlotte’s  eyes,  and  gave  relief  to  her  burst- 
ing heart,  stopped  Werther’s  recitation.  He 
threw  down  the  book,  seized  her  hand,  and 
wept  bitterly.  Charlotte  leaned  upon  her 
hand,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief ; the  agitation  of  both  was  excessive. 
They  felt  that  their  own  fate  was  pidlured  in 
the  misfortunes  of  Ossian’s  heroes — they  felt 
this  together,  and  their  tears  redoubled. 
Werther  supported  his  forehead  on  Charlotte’s 
arm ; she  trembled,  she  wished  to  be  gone,  but 


I sorrow  and  sympathy  lay  like  a leaden  weight 
upon  her  soul.  She  recovered  herself  shortly, 
and  begged  Werther,  with  broken  sobs,  to 
leave  her  — implored  him  with  the  utmost 
1 earnestness  to  comply  with  her  request.  He 
1 trembled ; his  heart  was  ready  to  burst : then 
j taking  up  the  book  again,  he  recommenced 
: reading,  in  a voice  broken  by  sobs. 

I ‘ ‘ Why  dost  thou  waken  me,  O Spring  ? 
Thy  voice  woos  me,  exclaiming,  I refresh  thee 
with  heavenly  dews;  but  the  time  of  my  de- 
] cay  is  approaching,  the  storm  is  nigh  that 
I shall  wither  my  leaves.  To-morrow  the  trav- 
j eller  shall  come, — he  shall  come,  who  beheld 
' me  in  beauty ; his  eye  shall  seek  me  in  the 
field  around,  but  he  shall  not  find  me.’’ 

The  whole  force  of  these  words  fell  upon 
the  unfortunate  Werther.  Full  of  despair  he 
[ threw  himself  at  Charlotte’s  feet,  seized  her 
hands,  and  pressed  them  to  his  eyes  and  to 
his  forehead.  An  apprehension  of  his  fatal 
I projedl  now  struck  her  for  the  first  time.  Her 
senses  were  bewildered  ; she  held  his  hands, 
pressed  them  to  her  bosom;  and  leaning  to- 
wards him,  with  emotions  of  the  tenderest 
pity,  her  warm  cheek  touched  his.  They  lost 
sight  of  everything.  The  world  disappeared 
from  their  eyes.  He  clasped  her  in  his  arms, 
strained  her  to  his  bosom,  and  covered  her 
trembling  lips  with  passionate  ki.sses.  “Wer- 
ther!’’ she  cried  with  a faint  voice,  turning 
herself  away — “Werther!’’  and  with  a feeble 
hand  she  pushed  him  from  her.  At  length, 
i with  the  firm  voice  of  virtue,  she  exclaimed, 
“Werther!’’  He  resisted  not,  but  tearing 
himself  from  her  arms,  fell  on  his  knees  before 
her.  Charlotte  rose  and  with  disordered 
I grief,  in  mingled  tones  of  love  and  resent- 
! ment,  she  exclaimed,  “It  is  the  last  time, 
j Werther! — you  shall  never  see  me  more!” 

I then  casting  one  last  tender  look  upon  her 
unfortunate  lover,  she  rushed  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  and  locked  the  door.  Werther 
I held  out  his  arms,  but  did  not  dare  to  detain 
! her.  He  continued  on  the  ground,  with  his 
I head  resting  on  the  sofa  for  half  an  hour,  till 
he  heard  a noise  which  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  The  servant  entered.  He  then  walked 
i up  and  down  the  room,  and  when  he  was 
again  left  alone,  he  went  to  Charlotte’s  door, 
and  in  a low  voice  said,  “Charlotte,  Char- 
! lotte!  but  one  word  more — one  last  adieu  !” 
She  returned  no  answer.  He  stopped,  and 
listened,  and  entreated — but  all  was  silent. 
At  length  he  tore  himself  from  the  place, 
crying,  “Adieu,  Charlotte!  adieu,  forever!” 


347 


Werther  ran  to  the  gate  of  the  town.  • The 
guards,  who  knew  him,  let  him  pass  in  silence. 
'I'he  night  was  dark  and  stormy — it  rained 
and  snowed.  He  reached  his  own  door  about 
eleven.  His  servant  perceived,  as  he  entered 
the  house,  that  he  was  without  a hat,  but  did 
not  venture  to  say  anything ; and  as  he  un- 
dressed his  master  he  found  that  his  clothes 
were  wet.  His  hat  was  found  afterwards  upon 
the  point  of  a rock  which  overhangs  the  val- 
ley; and  it  is  inconceivable  how  he  could 
have  climbed  to  the  summit  on  such  a dark, 
tempestuous  night  without  losing  his  life. 

He  retired  to  bed,  and  slept  to  a late  hour. 
The  next  morning  his  servant,  upon  being 
called  to  bring  his  coffee,  found  him  writing. 
He  was  adding  what  we  here  annex  to  Char- 
lotte’s letter. 

“For  the  last,  last  time,  I open  these  eyes. 
Alas  ! they  will  behold  the  sun  no  more.  It 
is  covered  by  a thick,  impenetrable  cloud. 
Yes,  Nature ! put  on  mourning ; your  child, 
your  friend,  your  lover,  draws  near  his  end  ! 
This  thought,  Charlotte!  is  without  parallel, 
and  yet  it  seems  like  a mysterious  dream, 
when  I repeat — this  is  my  last  day  I 'I'he  last ! 
Charlotte,  no  word  can  adequately  express 
this  thought ! The  last ! — 'I'o-day  I stand 
eredt,  in  all  my  strength — to-morrow,  cold 
and  stark,  I shall  lie  extended  upon  the  ground. 
To  die!  What  is  death?  We  do  but  dream 
in  our  discourse  upon  it.  I have  seen  many 
human  beings  die,  but  so  straitened  is  our 
feeble  nature  we  have  no  clear  conception  of 
the  beginning  or  the  end  of  our  existence. 
At  this  moment  I am  my  own — or  rather  I am 
thine — thine — my  adored  ! — and  the  next,  we 
are  parted — severed— perhaps  forever  ! No, 
Charlotte,  no — how  can  I — how  can  you  be 
annihilated?  We  exist.  What  is  annihila- 
tion? A mere  word,  an  unmeaning  sound, 
that  fixes  no  impression  on  the  mind.  Dead, 
Charlotte  ! laid  in  the  cold  earth,  in  the  dark 
and  narrow  grave  ! — I had  a friend  once,  who 
was  everything  to  me  in  early  youth — she  died. 
I followed  her  hearse,  I stood  by  her  grave 
when  the  coffin  was  lowered — and  when  I 
heard  the  creaking  of  the  cords  as  they  were 
loosened  and  drawn  up — when  the  first  shovel- 
ful of  earth  was  thrown  in,  and  the  coffin  re- 
turned a hollow  sound,  which  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  till  all  was  completely  covered 
over,  I threw  myself  on  the  ground  — my 
heart  was  smitten,  grieved,  shattered,  rent — 
but  I neither  knew  what  had  happened,  nor 
what  was  to  happen  to  me.  Death ! — the 


grave  ! — 1 understand  not  the  words. — For- 
give ! oh,  forgive  me  ! Yesterday — ah  ! that 
day  should  have  been  the  last  of  my  life. 
'I’hou  angel ! — for  the  first — first  time  in  my 
existence,  I felt  rapture  glow  within  my  inmost 
soul.  She  loves,  she  loves  me  ! Still  burns 
upon  my  lips  the  sacred  fire  they  received  from 
thine.  New  torrents  of  delight  overwhelm  my 
soul.  Forgive  me  ! oh,  forgive  ! 

“I  knew  that  I was  dear  to  you;  I saw  it 
in  your  first  entrancing  look,  knew  it  by  the 
first  pressure  of  your  hand  ; but  when  I was 
absent  from  you,  w hen  I saw  Albert  at  your 
side,  my  doubts  and  fears  returned. 

“Do  you  remember  the  flowers  you  sent  me 
when  at  that  crowded  assembly  you  could 
neither  speak  nor  extend  your  hand  to  me? 
Half  the  night  I w'as  on  my  knees  before  those 
flowers,  and  I regarded  them  as  the  pledges  of 
your  love;  but  those  imjuessions  grew  fainter, 
and  were  at  length  effaced. 

“Everything  passes  away:  but  a whole  eter- 
nity could  not  extinguish  the  living  flame 
w’hich  was  yesterday  kindled  by  your  lips,  and 
w’hich  now  burns  within  me.  She  loves  me  ! 
these  arms  have  encircled  her  waist ; these 
lips  have  trembled  upon  hers.  She  is  mine  ! 
Yes,  Charlotte,  you  are  mine  forever  ! 

“And  what  do  they  mean  by  saying  Albert 
is  your  husband  ? He  may  be  so  for  this 
world  ; and  in  this  world  it  is  a sin  to  love 
you — to  w'ish  to  tear  you  from  his  embrace. 
Yes,  it  is  a crime,  and  I suffer  the  punishment — 
but  I have  enjoyed  the  full  delight  of  my  sin. 
I have  inhaled  a balm  that  has  revived  my 
soul.  From  this  hour  you  are  mine;  yes', 
Charlotte,  you  are  mine ! I go  before  you. 
I go  to  my  Father,  and  to  your  Father.  I will 
pour  out  my  sorrows  before  Him,  and  He  will 
give  me  comfort  till  you  arrive.  Then  will  I 
fly  to  meet  you.  I w'ill  claim  you,  and  re- 
main in  }’our  eternal  embrace,  in  the  presence 
of  the  Almighty. 

“ I do  not  dream;  I do  not  rave.  Drawing 
nearer  to  the  grave  my  perceptions  become 
clearer.  We  shall  exist ; we  shall  see  each 
other  again ; we  shall  behold  your  mother ; I 
shall  behold  her,  and  expose  to  her  my  inmost 
heart.  Your  mother,  your  image  !” 

About  eleven  o’clock  Werther  asked  his 
servant  if  Albert  had  returned.  He  answered, 
“Yes;”  for  he  had  seen  him  pass  on  horse- 
back; upon  which  Werther  sent  him  the  fol- 
lowing note,  unsealed. 

“ Be  so  good  as  to  lend  me  your  pistols  for 
a journey.  Adieu.” 


348 


Charlotte  had  slept  little  during  the  past 
night.  All  her  apprehensions  were  realized  in 
a way  that  she  could  neither  foresee  nor  avoid. 
Her  blood  boiled  in  her  veins,  and  a thousand 
painful  sensations  rent  her  pure  heart.  Was 
it  the  ardor  of  Werther’s  passionate  embraces 
that  she  felt  within  her  bosom?  Was  it  anger 
at  his  daring?  Was  it  the  sad  comparison  of 
her  present  condition  with  former  days  of 
innocence,  tranquillity  and  self-confidence? 
How  could  she  approach  her  husband,  and 
confess  a scene  which  she  had  no  reason  to 
conceal,  and  which  she  yet  felt  nevertheless 
unwilling  to  avow?  They  had  preserved  so 
long  a silence  towards  each  other — and  should 
she  be  the  first  to  break  it  by  so  unexpedted  a 
discovery  ? She  feared  that  the  mere  statement 
of  Werther’s  visit  would  trouble  him,  and  his 
distress  would  be  heightened  by  her  perfect 
candor.  She  wished  that  he  could  see  her  in 
her  true  light,  and  judge  her  without  preju- 
dice,— but  was  she  anxious  that  he  should 
read  her  inmost  soul?  On  the  other  hand, 
could  she  deceive  a being,  to  whom  all  her 
thoughts  had  ever  been  exposed  as  clearly  as 
crystal,  and  from  whom  no  sentiment  had  ever 
been  concealed?  These  refledtions  made  her 
anxious  and  thoughtful.  Her  mind  still  dwelt 
on  Werther,  who  was  now  lost  to  her,  but 
whom  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  resign, 
and  for  whom  she  knew  nothing  was  left  but 
despair,  if  she  should  be  lost  to  him  forever. 

A recolledtion  of  that  mysterious  estrange- 
ment which  had  lately  subsisted  between  her- 
self and  Albert,  and  which  she  could  never 
thoroughly  understand,  was  now  beyond  meas- 
ure painful  to  her.  Even  the  prudent  and  the 
good  have,  before  now,  hesitated  to  explain 
their  mutual  differences,  and  have  dwelt  in 
silence  upon  their  imaginary  grievances,  until 
circumstances  have  become  so  entangled,  that 
in  that  critical  jundlure,  when  a calm  expla- 
nation would  have  saved  all  parties,  an  under- 
standing was  imirossible.  And  thus  if  domestic 
confidence  had  been  earlier  established  be- 
tween them,  if  love  and  kind  forbearance  had 
mutually  animated  and  expanded  their  hearts, 
it  might  not,  perhaps,  even  yet  have  been  too 
late  to  save  our  friend. 

But  we  must  not  forget  one  remarkable  .cir- 
cumstance. We  may  observe  from  the  char- 
after  of  Werther’s  correspondence,  that  he 
had  never  affefted  to  conceal  his  anxious  de- 
sire to  quit  this  world.  He  had  often  dis- 
cussed the  subjefl  with  Albert,  and  between 
the  latter  and  Charlotte  it  had  not  unfre- 


quently  formed  a topic  of  conversation.  Al- 
bert was  so  opposed  to  the  very  idea  of  such 
an  aflion,  that,  with  a degree  of  irritation 
unusual  in  him,  he  had  more  than  once  given 
Werther  to  understand  that  he  doubted  the 
seriousness  of  his  threats,  and  not  only  turned 
them  into  ridicule,  but  caused  Charlotte  to 
share  his  feelings  of  incredulity.  Her  heart 
was  thus  tranquillized  when  she  felt  disposed 
to  view  the  melancholy  subjefl  in  a serious 
point  of  view,  though  she  never  communicated 
to  her  husband  the  apprehensions  she  some- 
times experienced. 

Albert  upon  his  return  home  was  received 
by  Charlotte  with  ill-concealed  embarrass- 
ment. He  was  himself  out  of  humor,  his 
business  was  unfinished,  and  he  had  just  dis- 
covered that  the  neighboring  official,  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal,  was  an  obstinate  and 
narrow-minded  personage.  Many  things  had 
occurred  to  irritate  him. 

He  inquired  whether  anything  had  hap- 
pened during  his  absence,  and  Charlotte  hastily 
answered  that  Werther  had  been  there  on  the 
evening  previously.  He  then  inquired  for  his 
letters,  and  received  for  answer  that  several 
packages  had  been  left  in  his  study.  He  there- 
upon retired,  and  Charlotte  remained  alone. 

The  presence  of  the  being  whom  she  loved 
and  honored  produced  a new  impression  upon 
her  heart.  The  recolleflion  of  his  generosity, 
his  kindness  and  his  affeflion,  had  calmed  her 
agitation;  a secret  impulse  prompted  her  to 
follow  him;  she  took  her  work  and  went  to 
his  study,  as  was  often  her  custom.  He  was 
busily  employed  in  opening  and  reading  his 
letters.  It  seemed  as  if  the  contents  of  some 
were  disagreeable.  She  asked  some  questions; 
he  gave  short  answers,  and  sat  down  to  write. 

Several  hours  passed  over  in  this  manner, 
and  Charlotte’s  feelings  became  more  and 
more  melancholy.  She  felt  the  extreme  dif- 
ficulty of  explaining  to  her  husband,  under 
any  circumstances,  the  weight  that  lay  upon 
her  heart,  and  her  depression  became  every 
moment  greater,  in  proportion  as  she  endeav- 
ored to  hide  her  grief  and  to  conceal  her  tears. 

The  arrival  of  Werther’s  servant  occasioned 
her  the  greatest  embarrassment.  He  gave 
Albert  a note,  which  the  latter  coldly  handed 
to  his  wife,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  “Give 
him  the  pistols.  I wish  him  a pleasant  jour- 
ney,” he  added,  turning  to  the  servant.  These 
words  fell  upon  Charlotte  like  a thunderstroke  ; 
she  rose  from  her  seat,  half  fainting,  and  un- 
conscious of  what  she  did.  She  walked  mechan- 


349 


ically  towards  the  wall,  with  a trembling  hand 
took  down  the  pistols,  slowly  wiped  off  the 
dust  from  tliem,  and  would  have  delayed 
longer  had  not  Albert  hastened  her  move- 
ments by  an  impatient  look.  She  then  deliv- 
ered the  fatal  weajjons  to  the  servant,  without 
being  able  to  utter  a word.  As  soon  as  he 
had  departed  she  folded  up  her  work,  and 
retired  at  once  to  her  room,  her  heart  over- 
come with  the  most  fearful  forebodings.  She 
anticipated  some  dreadful  calamity.  She  was 
at  one  moment  on  the  point  of  going  to  her 
husband,  throwing  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
acquainting  him  with  all  that  had  happened 
on  the  previous  evening  — that  she  might 
acknowledge  her  fault,  and  explain  her  appre- 
hensions; then  she  saw  that  such  a step  would 
be  useless,  as  she  would  certainly  be  unable  to 
induce  Albert  to  visit  Werther.  Dinner  was 
served,  and  a kind  friend,  whom  she  had  per- 
suaded to  remain,  assisted  to  sustain  the  con- 
versation, which  was  carried  on  by  a sort  of 
compulsion,  till  the  events  of  the  morning 
were  forgotten. 

When  the  servant  brought  the  pistols  to 
Werther,  the  latter  received  them  with  trans- 
ports of  delight  upon  hearing  that  Charlotte 
had  given  them  to  him  with  her  own  hand. 
He  ate  some  bread,  drank  some  wine,  sent  his 
servant  to  dinner,  and  then  sat  down  to  w-rite 
as  follows: — 

“ They  have  been  in  your  hands — you  wiped 
the  dust  from  them.  I kiss  them  a thousand 
times — you  have  touched  them.  Yes,  Heaven 
favors  my  design — and  you,  Charlotte,  provide 
me  with  the  fatal  instruments.  It  was  my 
desire  to  receive  my  death  from  your  hands, 
and  my  wish  is  gratified.  I have  made  in- 
quiries of  my  servant.  Ybu  trembled  when 
you  gave  him  the  pistols,  but  you  bade  me  no 
adieu.  Wretched,  wretched  that  I am — not 
one  farewell  ! How  could  you  shut  your  heart 
against  me  in  that  hour  which  makes  you  mine 
forever?  O Charlotte,  ages  cannot  efface  the 
impression — I feel  you  cannot  hate  the  man 
who  so  passionately  loves  you  !” 


After  dinner  he  called  his  servant,  desired 
him  to  finish  the  packing  up,  destroyed  many 
papers,  and  then  w’ent  out  to  pay  some  trifling 
debts.  He  soon  returned  home,  then  went 
out  again  notwithstanding  the  rain,  walked 
for  some  time  in  the  Count’s  garden,  and 
afterwards  proceeded  farther  into  the  country. 
Towards  evening  he  came  back  once  more, 
and  resumed  his  writing. 


“Wilhelm,  I have  for  the  last  time  beheld 
the  mountains,  the  forests  and  the  sky.  Fare- 
well ! And  you,  my  dearest  mother,  forgive 
me  ! Console  her,  Wilhelm.  God  bless  you  ! 
I have  settled  all  my  affairs  ! Farewell  ! We 
shall  meet  again,  and  be  happier  than  ever.’’ 


“I  have  requited  you  badly,  Albert;  but 
you  w’ill  forgive  me.  I have  disturbed  the 
]>eace  of  your  home.  I have  sowed  distrust 
between  you.  Farewell  ! I will  end  all  this 
wretchedness.  And  oh,  that  my  death  may 
render  you  happy ! Albert,  Albert  ! make 
that  angel  happy,  and  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
be  upon  you  !’’ 

He  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  arrang- 
ing his  papers;  he  tore  and  burned  a great 
many;  others  he  sealed  up,  and  diredted  to 
Wilhelm.  They  contained  some  detached 
thoughts  and  maxims,  some  of  which  I have 
perused.  At  ten  o’clock  he  ordered  his  fire 
to  be  made  up  and  a bottle  of  wine  to  be 
brought  to  him.  He  then  dismissed  his  ser- 
vant, whose  room,  as  well  as  the  apartments 
of  the  rest  of  the  family,  was  situated  in 
another  part  of  the  house.  The  servant  lay 
down  without  undressing,  that  he  might  be 
the  sooner  ready  for  his  journey  in  the  morn- 
ing, his  master  having  informed  him  that  the 
post  horses  would  be  at  the  door  before  six 
o’clock. 

“Past  eleven  o’clock!  All  is  silent  around 
me,  and  my  soul  is  calm.  I thank  thee,  O 
God,  that  thou  bestowest  strength  and  courage 
upon  me  in  these  last  moments.  I approach 
the  window,  my  dearest  of  friends,  and  through 
the  clouds,  which  are  at  this  moment  driven 
rapidly  along  by  the  impetuous  winds,  I be- 
hold the  stars  which  illumine  the  eternal  heav- 
ens ! No,  you  will  not  fall,  celestial  bodies  ! 
the  hand  of  the  Almighty  supports  both  you 
and  me  1 I have  looked  for  the  last  time  upon 
the  constellation  of  the  Greater  Bear ; it  is 
my  favorite  star;  for  when  I bade  you  farewell 
at  night,  Charlotte,  and  turned  my  steps  from 
your  door,  it  always  shone  upon  me.  With 
what  rapture  have  I at  times  beheld  it ! How 
often  have  I implored  it  with  uplifted  hands 
to  witness  my  felicity?  and  even  still — . But 
what  objedl  is  there,  Charlotte,  which  fails  to 
summon  up  your  image  before  me  ? Do  you 
not  surround  me  on  all  sides?  and  have  I not, 
like  a child,  treasured  up  every  trifle  which 
you  have  consecrated  by  your  touch? 

“ Your  profile,  which  was  so  dear  to  me,  I 


35° 


return  to  yon,  and  I pray  von  to  preserve  it.  ' 
Thousands  of  kisses  have  I imprinted  u])on  it,  i 
and  a thousand  times  has  it  gladdened  my  ! 
heart  on  departing  from,  and  returning  to  my  j 
home. 

“I  have  implored  your  father  to  prote6l  my 
remains.  At  the  corner  of  the  churchyard, 
looking  towards  the  fields,  there  are  two  lime 
trees — there  I wish  to  lie.  Your  father  can, 
and  doubtless  will,  do  thus  much  for  his  friend. 
Implore  it  of  him.  But  perhaps  j)ious  Chris- 
tians will  not  choose  that  their  bodies  should 
be  buried  near  the  corpse  of  a poor  unhappy 
wretch  like  me.  Then  let  me  be  laid  in  some 
remote  valley,  or  near  the  highway,  where  the 
priest  and  Levite  may  bless  themselves  as  they 
pass  by  my  tomb,  whilst  the  Samaritan  will 
shed  a tear  for  my  firte. 

“ See,  Charlotte,  I do  not  shudder  to  take 
the  cold  and  fatal  cu]),  from  which  I shall 
drink  the  draught  of  death.  Your  hand  ])re- 
sents  it  to  me,  and  I do  not  tremble.  All,  all 
is  now  concluded  ; the  wishes  and  the  hopes 
of  my  existence  are  fulfilled.  With  cold,  un- 
flinching hand  I knock  at  the  brazen  portals 
of  Death. 

“Oh,  that  I had  enjoyed  the  bliss  of  dying 
for  )'ou  ! how  gladly  would  I have  sacrificed 
myself  for  you,  Charlotte  ! And  could  I but 


restore  peace  and  joy  to  your  bosom,  with 
what  resolution,  with  what  joy  would  I not 
!'  meet  my  fate  ! But  it  is  the  lot  of  only  a 
chosen  few  to  shed  their  blood  for  their 
friends,  and  by  their  death  to  augment,  a 
thousand  times,  the  ha[)piness  of  those  by 
whom  they  are  beloved. 

“ I wish,  Charlotte,  to  be  buried  in  the 
dress  I wear  at  present ; it  has  been  rendered 
sacred  by  your  touch.  I have  begged  this 
favor  of  your  father.  My  spirit  soars  above 
my  sepulchre.  I do  not  wish  my  pockets  to 
l)e  searched.  The  knot  of  pink  ribbon  which 
you  wore  on  your  bosom  the  first  time  I saw 
you,  surrounded  by  the  children  ! — Oh,  kiss 
them  a thousand  times  for  me,  and  tell  them 
the  fate  of  their  unhappy  friend.  I think  I 
see  them  ]>laying  around  me.  The  dear  chil- 
dren ! How  warmly  have  I been  attached  to 
)'Ou,  Charlotte  ! Since  the  first  hour  I saw 
you,  how  im])ossible  have  I found  it  to  leave 
you.  'rhis  ribbon  must  be  buried  with  me  ; 
it  was  a present  from  )-ou  on  my  birthday. 
How  confused  it  all  a])pears ! Little  did  I 
then  think  that  I should  journey  this  road. 
But,  peace  ! I pray  you,  peace  ! 

“ They  are  loaded — the  clock  strikes  twelve. 
I say  amen.  Charlotte,  Charlotte  ! farewell, 
farewell  !’ ’ 


351 


A neighbor  saw  the  flash,  and  lieard  tlie  re- 
port of  tlie  pistol,  but  as  ever\  thing  remained 
quiet  he  thought  no  more  of  it. 

In  the  morning,  at  six  o’clock,  the  servant 
went  into  Werther’s  room  with  a candle.  He 
found  his  master  stretched  upon  the  floor, 
weltering  in  his  blood,  and  the  pistols  at  his 
side.  He  called,  he  took  him  in  his  arms, 
but  received  no  answer.  Life  was  not  yet 
quite  extindl.  The  servant  ran  for  a surgeon, 
and  then  went  to  fetch  Albert.  Charlotte 
heard  the  ringing  of  the  bell ; a cold  shudder 
seized  her.  She  wakened  her  husband,  and 
they  both  rose.  I'he  servant,  bathed  m tears, 
faltered  forth  the  dreadful  news.  Charlotte 
fell  senseless  at  Albert’s  feet. 

\\'hen  the  surgeon  came  to  the  unfortunate 
Werther,  he  was  still  lying  on  the  floor,  and 
his  pulse  beat,  but  his  limbs  were  cold.  'I’he 
bullet,  entering  the  forehead  over  the  right  eye, 
had  penetrated  the  skull.  A vein  was  opened 
in  his  right  arm;  the  blood  came,  and  he  still 
continued  to  breathe.  From  the  blood  which 
flowed  from  the  chair  it  could  be  inferred  that 
he  had  committed  the  rash  a6l  sitting  at  his 
bureau,  and  that  he  afterwards  fell  ujjon  the 
floor.  He  was  found,  l)ing  on  his  bark,  near 
the  window.  He  was  in  full-dress  costume. 

The  house,  the  neighborhood,  and  the  whole 
town  were  immediately  in  commotion.  Albert 


arrived.  They  had  laid  Werther  on  the  bed  ; 
his  head  was  bound  up,  and  the  paleness  of 
death  was  upon  his  face.  His  limbs  were 
motionless;  but  he  still  breathed,  at  one  time 
strongly,  then  weaker — his  death  was  mo- 
mently expedted. 

He  had  drunk  only  one  glass  of  the  wine. 
'•  Emilia  Galotti  ” lay  open  upon  his  bureau. 

I shall  say  nothing  of  Albert’s  distress,  or 
of  Charlotte’s  grief. 

'I'he  old  steward  hastened  to  the  house 
immediately  upon  hearing  the  news ; he  em- 
braced his  d\  ing  friend  amid  a flood  of  tears. 
His  eldest  boys  soon  followed  him  on  foot. 
In  speei  hless  sorrow  they  threw  themselves 
on  their  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  kissed  his 
hands  and  face.  The  eldest,  who  was  his 
favorite,  hung  over  him  till  he  expired,  and 
even  then  he  was  removed  by  force.  At 
twelve  o’clock  Werther  breathed  his  last. 
'I'he  presence  of  the  steward,  and  the  pre- 
cautions he  had  adopted,  prevented  a disturb- 
ance ; and  that  night,  at  the  hour  of  eleven, 
he  caused  the  body  to  be  interred  in  the  place 
which  Werther  had  selected  for  himself. 

'I'he  steward  and  his  sons  followed  the 
corpse  to  the  grave.  Albert  was  unable  to 
' accompany  them.  Charlotte’s  life  was  de- 
' spaired  of.  The  body  was  carried  by  laborers. 
1 No  priest  attended. 


352 


INDEX.  ■ 

VOLUME  II. 


TITLE.  PAGE 

FAUST— FIRST  PART 5 

FAUST— SECOxND  PART 83 

EGMONT 191 

THE  N.\TURAL  DAUGHTER 243 

THE  SORROWS  OF  YOUNG  WERTHER 201 


353 


INDEX 

OF  THE 

WOOD  ENGRAVINGS  PRINTED  WITH  THE  TEXT. 


VOLUME  II. 


SUBJECT.  WOKK.  PAGE 

Title Faust 3 

Goethe’s  Vision “ 5 

Manager,  Dramatic  Poet  and  Merryman “ 6 

The  Lord,  Archangels  and  Mephistopheles  ....  “ 9 

Title — First  Part “ ii 

Faust  in  his  Study “ 13 

Faust  and  Wagner “ 16 

Chorus  of  Angels “ 19 

The  Empty  Sepulchre “ 20 

The  Merrymakers “ 21 

Faust  and  the  Peasants “ 24 

Faust,  Wagner  and  the  Dog “ 25 

Faust  and  the  Spectre “ 27 

The  Mouse  and  the  Pentagram “ 30 

Mephistopheles  Visits  Faust “ 31 

Signing  the  Compact “ 33 

Mephistopheles  Counselling  the  Studer.t “ 37 

The  Start “ 38 

Drinking-Party “ 39 

The  Escape  on  the  Wine-Cask “ 42 

The  Witches’  Kitchen “ 43 

'I'he  Magic  Mirror “ 45 

Faust,  Mephistopheles  and  the  Witch “ 47 

A Street “ 48 

Margaret  Braiding  her  Hair “ 49 

Mephistopheles  at  Martha’s  House “ 53 

Faust  Reproaching  Mephistopheles “ 57 

Margaret  at  her  Spinning-Wheel “ 59 

At  the  Well “ 62 

The  Serenade “ 64 

Margaret  in  Church “ 66 

In  the  Hartz  Mountains “ 67 

Walpurgis  Night “ 73 

Tail-piece “ 75 

Faust  in  Despair “ 76 


354 


^ Contents 

SUBJECT.  WORK.  PAGE 

The  Midnight  Ride Faust 77 

Angel  Weeping “ ' 80 

Title — Second  Part “ 81 

Faust  Seeking  Sleep “ 83 

Mephistopheles  Before  the  Emperor “ 85 

The  Garden  Girls “ 89 

The  Masquerade “ 91 

Plutus  in  his  Chariot “ 95 

Tail-piece “ 100 

The  Audience “ loi 

Mephistopheles  and  the  Fool “ 103 

The  Bestowal  of  the  Key “ 105 

Faust’s  Chamber “ no 

Mephistopheles  and  Baccalaureus “ 113 

In  the  Laboratory “ 115 

Pharsalian  Fields “ 117 

Tail-piece “ 134 

Helena  Before  the  Palace  of  Menelaus “ 135 

Helena  and  Phorkyas “ 141 

Faust  Instrudling  the  Princes “ 150 

The  Vision  of  the  Clouds “ 158 

Emperor  and  Attendants 163 

Pillaging  the  Emperor’s  Tent “ 168 

The  Emperor  and  the  Archbishop “ 171 

The  Hut “ 174 

Lynceus  on  the  Tower “ 178 

Care  Blinding  Faust “ 180 

Angels  Ascending  with  Faust “ 184 

Margaret  Awaiting  the  Ascent  of  Faust “ 187 

Tail-piece “ 188 

Title Egmont 189 

The  Cross-Bow  Competition “ 191 

Celebrating  the  Vidlory “ 193 

Clara  and  her  Mother “ 199 

Brackenburg “ 200 

Tail-piece “ 201 

Jetter  and  the  Carpenter “ 202 

Egmont  and  the  Citizens “ 204 

Egmont  and  his  Secretary “ 206 

Orange  Leaving  Egmont “ 208 

Tail-piece “ 212 

Margaret  of  Parma  and  Machiavel “ 213 

A Street  Scene “ 217 

Vansen  and  Citizens “ 219 

Silva  and  Gomez  Meeting “ 220 

Alva  and  Silva “ 221 


355 


SUBJECT. 

Alva  Awaiting  Egmont 

Tail-piece  

Clara  Addressing  the  Burghers 

Egmont  in  Prison 

Reading  the  Death-Warrant 

Egmont  and  Ferdinand 

Body  of  Egmont 

Title 

Head-piece 

King,  Duke  and  Eugenie 

Eugenie  and  her  Father 

Head-piece 

Governess  and  Secretarv 

Tail-piece 

Head-piece 

Duke  and  the  Secretarv 

Duke  and  Secular  Priest 

'fail-piece 

Eugenie 

Eugenie  and  the  Counsellor 

'Phe  Counsellor  Proposing  to  Eugenie 

'Pail-piece 

The  Port 

PFigenie  Appealing  to  the  Abbess 

Eugenie  and  the  Monk 

'Pitle 

Ornamental  Border 

Werther  in  the  Country 

Werther  at  the  Inn 

A Country  Dance 

At  the  Vicar’s 

Werther  and  Charlotte  at  the  Well 

.Albert  and  Charlotte  in  the  Summer-House  . . . . 

Werther  and  Albert 

Werther  and  the  Ribbon 

Werther  Weeping 

Ornamental  Head -piece.  Book  II 

Werther  at  the  Count’s 

Werther  Under  the  Elm 

Werther  and  the  Peasant 

Werther,  Charlotte  and  the  Canary 

Werther  and  Albert  before  the  Judge 

Werther  and  the  Children 

Werther  Reading  to  Charlotte 

The  Surgeon  examining  Werther’s  Body 

The  Burial  of  Werther 


WORK. 

Evnont 


Natural  Daughter 


Sorrows  of  Werther 


i ( 


t < 
(( 
< ( 
( ( 
t C 
( i 


i ( 

( ( 

( ( 

( ( 
(( 
(( 
(C  ^ 


PAGE 

226 

227 

228 
231 

234 

236 

240 

241 

243 

248 

250 

253 

256 

260 

261 
263 

268 

269 

270 

274 

277 

279 

280 
283 
286 

289 

290 

291 

29s 

300 

304 

306 

309 

312 

315 

318 

319 
323 
325 

328 

329 
338 
342 
344 

351 

352 


356 


INDEX 


OF 

FULL-PAGE  WOOD  ENGRAVINGS. 


VOLUME  II. 


SUBJECT.  WOKK,  ARTIST.  PAGE 

The  Spirit  appearing  to  Faust Faust  (First  Part)  . . . Franz  Simm  . . 14 

Under  the  Linden  Tree “ ...  “ . . 22 

The  Vision  of  Faust “ ...  “ . . 28 

Mephistopheles  removing  the  Spell  ....  “ ...  “ . . 42 

Faust  and  Margaret  leaving  Church  ....  “ ...  “ . . 48 

Faust  and  Margaret  in  the  Garden “ ...  “ . . 56 

Margaret  at  the  Shrine “ ...  “ . . 62 

The  Death  of  Valentine “ ...  “ . . 64 

Walpurgis  Night “ ...  “ . . 70 

Margaret  in  Prison “ ...  “ . . 78 

Vidtory,  Fear,  Hope  and  Prudence  ....  Faust  (Secon.t  Part)  . . “ . . 92 

Pan  and  his  Attendants “ . . “ . . 98 

Paris  and  Helena “ . . “ . . 108 

Faust  mounted  on  Chiron “ . . “ . . 120 

The  Sirens  of  the  HUgeaii  Sea “ . . “ . . 128 

Helena,  Faust  and  the  Tower- Warder  ...  “ . . “ . . 146 

Helena  leaving  Faust “ ..  “ ..156 

Angels  strewing  Roses  on  the  Body  of  Faust  . “ . . “ . . 182 

Margaret  of  Parma  and  Machiavel  ....  Fgmont C.  H liber  tin  . . 194 

Egmont  and  Clara “ “ . . 214 

Arrest  of  Count  Egmont “ “ . . 226 

Clara  and  Brackenburg “ “ . . 232 

Eugenie  recognizes  her  Father Natural  Daughter  . . . Otto  Seitz  . . . 246 

Eugenie  placing  Parchment  in  the  Press  . . “ ...  “ ...  258 

Eugenie  and  the  Governess “ ...  “ ...  278 

Charlotte  and  her  Sisters Sorrows  of  Werthcr  . . . C.  Bosch  . . . 298 

At  the  Harpsichord “ ...  “ ...  332 

On  the  Terrace “ ...  “ ...316 

Charlotte  and  Werther “ ...  “ ...  346 


INDEX 

OF  THE 


ENGRAVINGS  ON  STEEL. 


VOLUME  II. 


SUBJECT. 

* Faust 

Margaret  . . . . 

Mephistopheles  . . 

Wagner 

Helena 

Clara 

Machiavel  . . . , 

Orange 

Margaret  of  Parma 

Egmont 

Eugenie 

Wert  her 

Lottie 


Faust  . . Front 

“ 34 

“ 83 

“ 113 

“ 152 

E^s;mont 191 

“ 196 

“ 210 


“ 213 

“ 238 

Natural  Daughter 243 

Sorrows  of  Werther 291 


307 


358 


